Never Say Never (Tomione AU)
by TheParagons
Summary: In which Tom Riddle is fascinated by the dark and twisted mind possessed by Hermione Granger, the variable that could change his fate forever... Born to magic hating muggles in 1926, Hermione departs to Hogwarts with dark ambitions no ordinary child should possess. After gaining attention from Tom Riddle, she finds herself spiralling down a path no one could have predicted...
1. - ' Never Say Never ' -

**Chapter 1**

As the scarlet train sets of from platform nine and three quarters, swirls of steam rises from the chimney. Numerous children crowd around the windows, waving their arms wildly, laughing, cheering.

Hermione Granger is not one of them. Instead, she sits silently in an empty compartment, on a forlorn bench concealed in red scarlet. Her rather small, black suitcase lies neatly stowed away above her head, moved into place with a flick of her wand.

Solemnly, she rests there, reading an old leather book she had scoured the ancient bookstores at Diagon Alley for. Magic spells and incantations were its secret, many long forgotten.

Not that it bothers Hermione Granger. Occasionally, she flicks a page over, dust flooding from the book into the compartment. And so she sat, in a deep trance as she absorbed every bit of information the grubby pages had to offer.

It had been costly, but it had been worth it, Hermione Granger decides. A book was a better companion, a better friend, a better comfort than any child could ever wish to be. Her foolish parents had been persuaded with a snap of her poised fingers. They pampered her, spoiled her, and Hermione knew why.

She was no fool, she had decided very early on in life. She would not deny truths, or cling to impossible scenarios. No, Hermione Granger would be smart, and that would be needed. Her childhood had taught her one thing, one thing, that she would never let go.

The world was hers to conquer, and anyone, anyone in her path would pay.

Since then, many of her former objectives, or missions as she preferred, had changed. Not this one. They had not been a usual child's, and her parents had been ever oblivious to that.

And yet, their obnoxious behavior could not unsee the past.

Hermione remembers the day very clearly when she first levitated something. Her mother's complexion had been ashy, a pasty white, and she'd been sweating, quaking in fear. Her father had dropped the newspaper with absolute shock, eyes widening in an unsaid fright, and then they had fled the room.

Hermione Granger had absolutely no illusions. Her parents were afraid of her.

Though, she had to admit the advantages. The pampering, the ability to have everything at her fingertips and very command had shaped a girl who cared very little. It had brought forward a girl who knew that the world was hers to conquer, not anyone else's, but hers. Nevertheless, she had been robbed of a loving childhood, any hope of true happiness.

Yet did it bother Hermione? Not one bit.

A weak knock on the thin glass of the compartment door tears Hermione from her thoughts. A young boy saunters arrogantly into the compartment, with neat platinum hair and dark, grey eyes. He wears a deep midnight black uniform, as they all do, and his mouth is quirked downwards, permanent annoyance painted on his face, in form of a sneer. His face radiates pure irritation, and his cold eyes look down on her, as if he was better than her. Pulling his hand through his slick mop of platinum, he drawls at her. "Can I sit here?"

His voice is brimming with vexation, and he doesn't wait for an answer.

Casually, he positions himself opposite Hermione. There is a certain arrogance in everything he does. It makes her blood boil, to see something so brainless act like everything belongs to him. It was hers, only hers.

The world is hers to conquer.

In a tone that would do any ice queen proud, Hermione replies, her voice an abyss of intense frost. "You never even listened for an answer."

The boy winks at her, his face morphing into a lazy smirk. "Would it matter what you said? I doubt it would." He declared, with an air of exasperation.

"I take whatever I want." The fury in his voice was clear. Hermione raises an eyebrow.

The boy glares at her, sourly. "I haven't introduced myself. No wonder you're clueless." Sticking out his hand, he smiles, as if it were a great gift. Regarding him cautiously, Hermione's hands remain firmly planted on the pages of her book.

His stance stays the same. He doesn't seem to be bothered at all, but when she catches his stormy gaze, she sees the irritation clearly. Yawning, the boy declares his name anyways. "I'm Abraxas Malfoy. You've heard of my father, yes?"

Malfoy. The name seemed familiar to Hermione, and she remembers back to Brutus Malfoy, who had tried to get a law through preventing so called interbreeding with Muggles. According to her books, the he was an unpleasant man. Apparently, if she has done her maths correctly, Abraxas must be his son. Quickly, Hermione attempts a sugary smile. The Malfoys, whilst said to be arrogant, had a lot of connections.

"Hermione Granger. An honour to meet you." She takes his hand, and shakes it.

Abraxas nods triumphantly. He sits back, his body leaning loosely against the seat. "So, Hogwarts must be exciting for you."

"Of course." Hermione replies, putting her book to the side, careful not to damage the precious pages. "I was ever so shocked, I mean, I'm the first witch in my family."

Abraxas stares at her, confused, and then his face morphs into the epitome of horror. Then, Hermione realises her mistake. Malfoys were blood purists. And she had admitted she was a muggleborn. Cursing internally, Hermione thinks rapidly. Just a slip of the tongue...

Looking at her in disgust, Abraxas asks, "You're a mudblood?" His gaze wonders to his hand, where he touched her, and he looks at it like it is infected with some sort of plague.

"A mudblood! I sat with a mudblood!" He spits the words full of fury, as if she had deceived him, like she was a pest. His glance is full of wildfire, and it's focused on her. "You filthy piece of dirt! I touched you!" His facade of arrogance has broken, and revealed a furious boy. For once, Hermione is lost for words. She's barely on the train, and she's already made an enemy. Thinking fast, Hermione opts for damage control.

However, her anger gets the better of her. The prejudiced git had stormed in here, insulted her and blames it on her. For goodness sake, it isn't her fault he can't see sense.

"Don't you think you are being foolish here? You don't know me, or my personality, yet you come here and judge me for my parents, a factor I can't control? Isn't that imbecilic? Aren't you being imbecilic? If you didn't like my personality, fine. If you think I'm dumb, fine. But judging me for my blood is incredibly short sighted and naive." Breathing heavily, Hermione stops her rant.

Slowly, she hisses at him, like a snake, a glimmer in her stare. "Who do you think you are?"

The boy stands up, an brewing storm in his sliver irises. His hand instinctively moves to grasp to his wand. Hermione's face remained impassive, still.

Abraxas shouts at her. "You'll pay for that, mud-"

Hermione snaps her fingers. It's a small charm, one she can do wandless, and rather useful too. The boy stumbles back, still with grace, and makes a move to open his mouth. No sound comes out. Hermione waves her hand again, and it snaps shut. "Close your mouth, will you? Otherwise you'll catch flies." She smirked, and the sweet taste of vengeance fills her mouth. She musters him up and down. Pathetic.

"Lost for words now, are we?" she mocks, eyes gleaming. "The big bad mudblood is getting her revenge. Poor Abraxas." Grinning, Hermione feels victorious. The brat is finally getting what he deserves. His face is paling, rapidly, and he looks as if he is going to wet himself. Then, Hermione's gaze hardens into a glare. "Leave." she commands, gesturing towards the door. As he turns to flee, Hermione jumps up and grabs him. She grasps his chin and pulls his face opposite hers. "Don't mess with me."

The boy nods, eyes wide. His face is red, with fury and fright. He spins around, and flees.

Hermione tilts her head thoughtfully as he leaves. "Don't mess with me." she repeats, an iron fist in her voice.

He broke, quickly, she observes. If everyone here breaks so quickly, then Hogwarts will be empty by the time she reaches seventh year. Hermione smiles, knowing this show was unnecessary. And yet it empowers her. Let them be afraid. Let them whisper in the hallways. As long as they stay away from her, she'll stay away from them. The boy though, he asked for it.

"Impressive show there." Another boy stands in the door, his face impassive. He eyes her, up and down, before sticking out his hand. "Tom Riddle." The boy doesn't smile. Hermione doesn't either.

"Hermione Granger." She briefly remembers her when her Father would introduce himself. He would always add 'at your service'. She doesn't. Hermione observes that he doesn't shrink back in disgust. So he isn't a blood purist. Or maybe he is, and has another course of action planned out.

And so they stand, gripping each others hands, firmly, staring each other in the eye. His are green orbs, dark and powerful. His brown hair is combed back, and he has a pasty complexion, clear of any imperfections.

After what feels like an eternity, he releases her hand. Both sit down, silence apparent.

Tension hangs thickly in the air. They stare at each other, unblinking, cold, devoid of any emotion. A brief jealousy overcomes her, and she wonders absentmindedly how he manages his monotone display effortlessly, a skill Hermione had taken years to perfect.

"New for Hogwarts, are you?" The boy asks, yet the curiosity in his voice is lacking.

"Obviously." Hermione drawls, gesturing at her plain uniform.

The boy- Tom- regards her in silence. "Yes. Obviously." He repeats. "I can sit here?" In a way, it sounds more like a command then a question, yet Hermione nods. The boy interests her, in a deeper kind of way. Not amusement wise, like Abraxas did. Not like some strange creature at an exhibition. No, he baffles Hermione. Because the more she studies him, the more he seems like her.

Hermione has never met someone like her. No, everyone else was naive, foolish in her eyes, especially other children, with their short sighted judgement, or with their unnecessary need for attention and compliments. They were inferior, unable to understand the things she so clearly saw.

Yet Tom is different. There is something dark, strangely mature about him, and Hermione can't put her finger on what.

His glacial gaze scrutinizes her, as if he was trying to absorb all her secrets. It's something Hermione does when she first meets people. Catch their gaze, see if they look away, find their intention. Some religions say eyes are windows to the soul. To Hermione, they're an open book. Hermione smirks victoriously.

"You won't be able to read me." It's a fact she's proud of. No one knows her secrets. Not even herself. They're hidden away, locked tightly in the depths of her heart. Tom laughs, seemingly amused at her bold statement. "Everyone can be read. To me, they're all an open book."

Hermione looks up, chin held high. "Not me." She sneers. "Never."

Tom snorts at her speech, entertainment clear in his voice. Hermione prides herself in maturity, but next to him, she feels like a foolish child. She feigns ignorance. "What do you mean?"

She's genuinely curious, burning to know what this boy is hiding behind his frozen façade.

Tilting his head, Tom answers. "Just debating your choice of wording."

Hermione can sense a retort coming. She's right.

Tom fluidly speaks. Leaning back, he pops a sweet in his mouth.

"Never say never."

They sit in muteness the rest of the journey. Occasionally, Tom makes some casual comments on the stunning scenery. Hermione simply glowers sourly at him. He makes her feel small, like an ant, and she hates it. She'll show him she's better, and her confidence sours under her soothing words. Yet she's still seething, furious at the boy, desperate to lash out. Hermione decides to bide her time. Her revenge will not run away. No, she thinks, eyes gleaming maliciously. It only comes closer.

The whole way, Tom regards her in silence. It puts her at unease, but she does not show it.

When they get off the train, a robust professor welcomes them. By the looks of it, he's lost several limbs, replaced with wooden prototypes. As he limps, a woolen cloak billows in the wind. A luminous laugh echoes across the train tracks as he opens his arms wide. "Welcome to Hogwarts. My name is Professor Kettleburn, and I will be your care of magical creature's teacher. If you would follow me." His voice is coarse and scratchy in his throat.

Hermione's attention is focused somewhere else. Near to her, a massive boy towers over everyone else. Seemingly twice the size of a normal human, and seemingly twice the strength too. Tom, she notes with relief, has left her. She spies him talking to the blond boy she put down earlier. If Tom lowers himself to the company of the brainless, he is just as brainless as them, Hermione Granger decides. Tom Riddle is inferior.

A great lake rests in front of the bustling crowd of students. It's murky, grimy waters raise discomfort in her mind, contrasting heavily to the clean environment she is used too. Raising her eyebrow, Hermione notices the absence of older students. Strange. Perhaps it's some sort of special thing to the first years, some sort of ritual, whatever Professor Kettleburn decides to do.

And then, she realizes his intention. The banks of the murky waters are lined with boats. Little, wooden rowing boats, feeble and cramped. She can barely see them between the silhouettes of the trees.

"All right kids. Pair up and get in a boat."

A frown passes Hermione's face. Back in primary school, she never worked in pairs. It affected her work rates and significantly decreased her progress. Involuntarily, she finds herself searching for Tom. No, she decides. She doesn't want to seem ridiculous. Besides, isn't she supposed to hate him?

Again, her thoughts wonder to the boats. They seem a little lost, alone on such a wide surface of brown water. Hermione has never liked them. They make her sick, and being sick makes her feel weak, subjected to a factor she can't control. Hermione doesn't like many types of transport, flying especially. Planes make her feel fear, and fear makes her weak, easily controlled.

In the end, only her and the giant are left without partners. Reluctantly, Hermione climbs into the wooden rowing boat with him. She perches on the edge of it, somehow trying to find a way to balance the boat. It's leaning heavily to the giant's side, who edges nearer to the middle.

Hermione grimaces, and braces herself for the silence to come. However, after mustering the boy, she recognises his strength. Better a ally than an enemy. All though, from his kind smile, he wouldn't hurt a fly. His black, shaggy hair is unkempt and a permanent glimmer sparkles in his eyes. He seems the opposite of her or Tom. Suddenly, she doubts his usefulness. There's probably not a devious bone in his body.

Surprisingly, she is not the one to make conversation. "'ello."The boys mutters awkwardly. "I'm Rubeus Hagrid, but everyone calls me Hagrid." He reaches out his hand, and whilst doing so, drops the paddle.

"Careful." Hermione reprimands him. Remembering her intention, she smiles forcefully. "I'm Hermione Granger." A long silence follows her proclamation, and Hermione looks to ease the tension. Conversation might help.

"Hagrid," she begins. The foreign name tastes strange on her tongue. "I don't mean to be intrusive, but how are you so tall?" She figures that manipulation won't help her far here. He's to simple, and the simplest are the hardest to manipulate. She's generally curious. Perhaps a potion, like Scele Gro? Being straightforward here will assist her in finding out about him. Hermione can take advantage of that.

Hagrid goes red, and looks to the floor, mumbling something incoherent. Maybe she was too intrusive? Perhaps she should use some humour, to put him at ease.

"Don't worry," she jokes, "If you've fallen into Skele Gro, I won't tease you." She hopes the giant will take her attempt at a joke and open up to her.

Hagrid shrugs nonchalantly. "My parents are both tall, I guess..." he says, fidgeting nervously, gaining a strange interest in his shoes. It's easy to tell he's lying. Never mind, Hermione thinks. She'll only lose his trust if she pushes him now. At Hogwarts, she'll find out more.

Professor Kettleburn's voice echoes across the rippling surface lake. "There's Hogwarts. Welcome home!"

A massive castle towers over them, grand and powerful, with countless turrets and barracks and halls. Little lights ornament it, and celebrate its beauty. It awes her, imposing and tall, and Hermione feels like an ant next to it, small and insignificant. Captured by the castle, Hermione turns to Hagrid, whose eyes are dreamy as he gazes at the castle.

"Home..." he whispers gently.

Hermione cannot bring herself to scowl, despite her usual tendencies.

"Home." she agrees, and a mere shadow of a smile hushes over her lips, as their boat floats through the still, dark water...


	2. - ' Keep your friends close ' -

**Chapter 2**

After they leave the boats, Professor Kettleburn guides them through a series of eerie tunnels. The walls are stone, and lights hang from them. At last, it morphs into a corridor, and they take their first step into Hogwarts.

There's a certain warmth to it, in the palette and the feeling, and whilst other students shy away from the imposing stone walls, Hermione feels oddly comforted by them. Soon, they reach a massive entry way, held alit by flickering torches hanging from the stone. Two gigantic wooden doors ascend above them, arched, the aura of the ancient encompassing them.

Another Professor strides out a side passage, with large steps. His cloak moves with him, and he wears a formal suit. She notices Tom's mask of ice cracking as he obviously recognizes the Professor. Interesting. The Professor has auburn hair, and long, pale fingers and hands. Spectacles sit perfectly balances upon his straight nose, and keen eyes regard them carefully.

He attempts a smile. "My name is Albus Dumbledore, and I teach Transfiguration." he pauses, and gestures to the doors. "Behind these doors awaits perhaps the most fundamental moment for your time at Hogwarts. The Sorting. There are four houses." Turning back to them, his eyes fall upon Tom Riddle, and he frowns. Tom's dislike must be mutual, Hermione notes. Bringing her attention back to the Professor, she listens.

Professor Dumbledore continues, as if nothing happened. "Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin." A slight distaste sneaks its way into his voice as he says Slytherin.

"You will be sorted into houses by the sorting hat." Several children's hands shoot into the air. Dumbledore ignores them.

"Let the sorting ceremony begin!"

Under tumultuous applause, the doors open, and the first years are led in. Students crowd benches at long tables, and cheering welcomes them. At the front of a hall, is the teacher's table, and a grand chair rests in the middle. A plump man occupies it, with a friendly smile.

"The headmaster. Armando Dippet." A black haired girl whispers to no one in particular, voice hushed.

A stool sits in front of teacher's table. It's wobbly, and upon it lounges a hat, old and worn. Patched several time, the hat looks rather ordinary. Then, it begins to sing.

I've sorted students for centuries

I've never gotten it wrong

Listen carefully, my friends

The answer lies in my song

U

First of all there's Gryffindor

Where bravery lies at is core

The most courageous of all men

You'll find them in the lion's den

The cleverest of all, Ravenclaw

You'll watch the eagle's nest in awe

Curious, clever and full of wit

Possessing of an eager spirit

The badgers burrow, Hufflepuff

Don't be fooled, Diamonds in the rough

Friendly, Loyal and Kind

The greatest friends you'll ever find

Slytherin, cunning is what it takes

To find yourself in a pit of snakes

A shrewd tongue, a manipulative mind

Soon you will find your fates intertwined

Don't be prejudiced, I'm not just a hat

You'll be pleased to find, where you're at

So do not fear, put me on your head

In a moment you'll be safe in bed

Raising an eyebrow, Hermione inspects the hat with curiosity. In her mind, it's rather odd that such a primitive object can decide her future. By the end of this night, a mere hat will have achieved where many others have failed: it will know her secrets. Every single one of them, and this prospect alarmed her greatly.

Before she had time to contemplate the hat and its intelligence further, Professor Dumbledore steps up once again. "When I call your name, you shall sit on the stool and put on the hat. After it has sorted you, you will leave to your designated house table. Understood?" His eyes rest on Tom as he said that, who stares back emotionlessly, with a hint of defiance.

The Professor rolls out a lengthy scroll, with yellowish parchment and a grimy look. Solemnly, he calls the first name.

"Abbott, Oliver!" Dumbledore calls out, voice echoing across the hall.

A thin, skinny boy scampers up and pulls that hat over his eyes tightly. The hat waits for a second, and shouts "HUFFLEPUFF!"

The table decked with yellow cheers.

"Avery, Marcus!" The next name. A haughty boy strides to the hat. The hat immediately proclaims him to be slytherin.

And so it goes on, until Professor Dumbledore calls out "Granger, Hermione."

Smirking to herself, Hermione struts to the stool. Stiffly, she lowers herself onto the stool, and the hat is placed on her head.

The hat thinks. "Oh, you're and interesting one." He isn't talking, but she can hear his thoughts in her head. Curious, she answers. "How so?" She thinks back.

The hat moves up and down. "I see many things, many secrets, Ms Granger. You are a strange person."

Hermione grins. "I've called myself strange before, yet no one has dared called me that to my face."

The hat smiles, eyes narrowing. "I can imagine why. You possess a resourceful mind, Ms Granger, indeed. A sharp tongue too, oh yes, I can sense the cunning. My, my, you are extraordinary."

Hermione hesitates, eager to show no weakness. "I'll take that as a compliment." Darkly, she adds, "I don't like people insulting me."

The hat seems unfazed by her words and continues. "Manipulative too, oh, great potential, a path to greatness." After a while, it frowns. "Dark ways lie ahead of you, trials and tribulations. Perhaps it would be best for... no. No. I cannot do that. Maybe Ravenclaw would suit you better."

Its distinct murmurs are barely audible, yet Hermione picks them up. "What can you not do? You said I have a cunning mind, yet you want to sort me into Ravenclaw. Wouldn't Slytherin be the better fit?"

Hermione knows there's something fishy. She was born to be a Slytherin, raised to be great. And she will be. The world is hers to conquer.

That hat gives her a strained smile, and although she cannot see it, she knows it's there. And then a light pops in her head. "Because I'm a mudblood, right?"

The hat shifts. "Ms. Granger, nothing against you... but a Muggleborn Slytherin is a virtual recipe for disaster."

Anger stirs in Hermione. She's the smartest girl of her age, and a stupid hat tells her she can't fulfill her destiny for her blood, her heritage, a variable she cannot control.

It matters not. "Put me in Slytherin. I don't care. Let them whisper, and they'll rue the day they crossed me. I've already shown one of them their place, with wandless magic no less, and you belittle me? Believe me, I'll show them."

Taking a deep breath, she continues her rant. "I don't ask much. We can part with no qualms. Do not a decision you'll regret."

The patchy hat chuckles. "Ms Granger, I'm but a hat, how would you hurt me."

Hermione responds in a monotone voice. "Anyone can be hurt. Both you and the Slytherins."

The hat considers her point. "Very well, Ms Granger. If you are not happy, do not tell me I didn't warn you."

And then, much to her relief, the hat proclaims "SLYTHERIN!"

The green and sliver table looks at each other in disbelief. She can hear the whispers. "But Granger isn't a wizarding name... or is it? Maybe she's halfblood."

They don't cheer, and Hermione has managed the impossible, and she smiles victoriously. She walks down, and whispers so everyone can hear. "I'm a muggleborn." she mouths at them. Immediately, shouts of anger and shock arise.

A mudblood in Slytherin. Oh sweet destiny. In silence, she walks to her table and perches herself at the end. She sees glares, some accusing, some angry, some annoyed. But they are all directed at her, and she feels powerful. Oh, how the tables have turned. Let Tom Riddle beat this.

The rest of the sorting commences. The platinum haired boy, whos name is Abraxas Malfoy, gets sorted into Slytherin. Loudly, Hermione groans. The nuisance is in her house?

Then, a name is called that is all too familiar. Tom Riddle strides up. The hat takes a while with him. Tom's usual mask has dropped and displays a wide array of emotion, such as anger, sadness and irritation. After at least two minutes, the hat exclaims Slytherin. Abraxas Malfoy welcomes him with open arms. It annoys her to know end. As he sits opposite her, he shoots her a glance of victory. "You're not any better: you're probably a mudblood too."

It's not her talking, but her vindictive rage, and her mask has completely dropped. Tom smirks. "Prove it." He mouths to her. Then, he pays her no more attention.

The prefects stand in front of a bare stone wall. Cygnus Black, as he introduced himself, points at it. "This, fellow snakes, is the entrance to the Slytherin common room." his harsh gaze brushes over the first year. "Don't forget its location, because no one will tell you where it is. The password is pureblood." As he says that, his gaze Pierce's Hermione. She snorts with muffles laughter. If that's the best insult they can come up with, that's pathetic.

Hermione's face is devoid of any emotion. She won't bow to them, they can provoke her all they like, she won't bow. The world is hers to conquer, and Slytherin isn't any different. It will only need a different approach. If they see her weak, they'll exploit it, and Hermione knows that if this happens, she's doomed. It mustn't.

As she walks into the common room, a certain emotion overcomes her. She doesn't quite know what it is, but it stirs at her thawed heart, and she finds the cold, green lights of the lake and the cold stone walls of the dungeon oddly comforting. This will be her home for the next seven years. Home. The word is strange on her tongue, new to her vocabulary.

A seventh-year strides in. "Welcome. He sneers. I'm Hesper Black, headboy, and Cygnus' older brother. " He pauses, his haughty smirk rolling of his face.

"You are now Slytherins and have a responsibility to uphold. Whilst I know the other houses have a prominent dislike for us, do not be provoked. Should you want vengeance, we won't fuss about it, just don't get caught." His words are powerful, enforced by the underlying threat.

"We, as Slytherins, must show unity. If you feel insulted by another snake, settle it in the common room under our judgement. If we are divided, the other houses will take their chance and strike. It is fundamental that we maintain a united image." He coughs.

"Remember, your fellow housemates will be more than school friends. Allies, and partners in the years to come, even after Hogwarts. The bonds you forge now will become paramount in the future." The boy regards them with a cold glare and waits. After a minute he declares "You are dismissed. Prefects will show you your dormitories." Hesper gestures to the people flanking him. They all wear a shiny, silver badge with a P on them. P for prefect.

"Wait!" Abraxas Malfoy calls out, brushing his hair backwards, his face twisted into a sneer. "What of the mudblood?" At once, the whispering starts. Everyone in the crowd of first years turns to stare at her, hushed chatter accompanying their thoughts. The older students, she notices, are fidgeting uncomfortably, as if they want to sweep this all under the rug.

Abraxas points at her accusingly. "She can't stay here. Why is she even here anyways? She's filthy." Again, the muttering starts. Hermione stays silent.

Hesper shifts uncomfortably. He inspects Hermione, and then turns to Malfoy. "You're Brutus' son, aren't you?"

The Platuninum haired boy nodded, a pleased smile spreading across his face that someone recognized him. "Yes. Now, I demand to know what will happen to the mudblood."

Hermione stirs, irritation growing. She grinds her teeth together, her sight reddening. Abraxas calls her a mudblood, humiliates her, and generally is unconditionally rude. Suddenly, words slip of her sharp tongue. "Mudblood this, mudblood that. I repeat, Malfoy, what I told you in the train. Can you judge someone by their heritage?" she stamps her foot onto the mossy stones of the Slytherin dungeon, and the Slytherin's heads snivel to her rapidly.

Most of them nod, hostility in their expressions.

It leaves Hermione completely baffled. How on earth where these people Slytherins? They were supposed to be cunning, resourceful, yet she saw none of that. "You can't. For example, imagine Malfoy's father was nice. I'm sure he's not, because look how he raised his son- but that's beside the point." Hermione shrugs her shoulders, a smirk appearing on her expression as fury overcomes Malfoy's gaze. Again, Abraxas reaches for his wand, and again, Hermione snaps her fingers for the desired effect. Malfoy makes a move to say something, yet still, no word comes out. Hermione grins viciously. "Let me continue, Malfoy. It's rude to interrupt people. Anyways, if his father was nice, it would not automatically make Abraxas nice, nor smart, of which he isn't either. He could be pureblood, or halfblood, it would not make a difference what his intelligence levels are."

She pauses, hoping somebody gets her point. "I may not know as much about the wizarding world, but I'm willing to learn. I am not unworthy of magic, otherwise I wouldn't possess it. And stop pretending that your blood is completely pure. It's not. The first witches and wizards must have come from somewhere, likely muggles. The first witches and wizards were likely so called mudblood. So stop being bloody hypocrites!" She shouts the last part, her hand curling into a fist as her gaze traces the faces of the Slytherin's, all of them unmoving, cold.

The younger prefect, with black hair and brown eyes, Cygnus Black, looks furious. His lips are curled in disdain, and he hisses at her. "Hesper. Malfoy's right. Get this piece of filth away. She's not just dirty, but apparently delusional." He turns to his brother, madness embroidered in his complexion. Hesper glances at Hermione for a brief second. Unlike his brother, who acts rashly, he seems to be deep in thought. Opening his mouth, he raises his long hand delicately to speak and-

Chaos and tumult breaks loose. Some, agreeing with Cygnus call for her head, stampeding forwards in fits of anger, their pride trodden on by a simple mudblood, sneers of chagrin directed towards her, the origin of this insanity, her, the mudblood, Hermione Granger, who leans back and smirks, provocative, daring them to attack, to heal their injured egos.

Oh, Hermione loves it. Their rage, like a fuel to her thawed heart.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Tom Riddle, a crease on his pale forehead, frowning. Abraxas Malfoy stands next to him, livid, eager to join the crowd, jeering and insulting her. Several hexes fly at her, barely missing.

It is chaos. The purest, darkest kind of chaos.

And then, a harsh declaration silence them all. "ENOUGH!" Hesper Black shouts, authority glazing his tone, his eyebrows tilted downwards as he stares at them all with a mask of steel. His wand is tightly secured in his right hand, and the people standing behind him, the prefects, do the same.

A few Slytherins stir in an attempt for rebellion, but they find themselves unable to move, frozen to the ground. A girl next to Hesper, with sleek blond hair shouts at the students with a powerful roar. "If you don't want the rest of the year spent in detention, then I advise you to LISTEN."

Hesper regards the Slytherins with a glare. "It has been long since I have had to raise my own wand to my own house. Now, let the mudblood go." He sneers at Hermione, his soulless eyes looking down upon her. "I don't like her either, but if anything happens to her, she will only gain more publicity. No." He murmurs to himself. "That cannot happen."

The blond girl takes charge, her chin raised high. "Leave her. When she leaves Hogwarts, grass will grow over this... affair" she pursues her lips, trying to find the right word. Finally, she speaks. "The mudblood will be forgotten. No one will know her name, and Slytherin will return to its former grand status. The solution is simple."

Hesper shifts, stance imposing. "We expect you to follow it." His gaze sweeps to his unruly brother, Cygnus. "Anyone who has a problem with it can sort that out with us." He points to his wingmen, all who still have their wands in their hand.

"Now, disperse. Prefects lead the young snakes to the dorms."

As the students file out, Hesper wipes sweat from his brow. Making no effort to control his rage, he twists to Callidora, the blond one. "Fools, the whole lot of them. How they wound up in Slytherin is a puzzle to me."

Callidora smiles sweetly, with a sharp edge. "All bark and no bite. Ambitious but lacking the cunning that goes with it." She says, rolling her blue eyes in laughter. "But honestly, you are right. I dread to know what will become of this madhouse when we leave."

"Should have taken divination." Hesper drawls, a smirk replacing his fury. He raises an eyebrow. "But honestly, this whole deal because of one student, and a firstie at that."

Callidora laughs resentfully, grimacing. "She's be less dangerous to our reputation where we can monitor her. Don't they know the saying?"

Hesper answers her automatically. "Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer."


	3. - ' He knows ' -

**Chapter 3**

"Lumos!" Hermione mutters tentatively, clutching her ornamented wand in an eagle like grip. A shinning orb of light descends from the tip, illuminating and bright, like the moonshine rippling across the glassy surface of a pond. Guardedly, she pulls up the soft linen covers of her blanket, ever so slightly, allowing herself a peek through into the depths of the dark chamber. Somewhere, the audible snoring of her dormmate, Druella Rosier, echoes from an aphotic corner, and grin takes over Hermione's expression. "Brilliant." Hermione whispers, mostly to herself, brushing her thick brown veil of hair away from her line of sight. The coast is clear.

Promptly, she flicks the snowy white paper over, her lofty fingers tracing the next spell, black ink on the surface of milky white. There, in elegant lettering, the word 'Nox' is written. "A spell to reverse the effects of Lumos and get rid of light." She reads, tilting her head to the side, tugging the blanket a little closer to her book and body. "So basically, a counter." Her murmurs are filled to the brim with concentration, a small hissing in the darkness of the night.

A little crease forms in the middle of her brows, as she studies the incantation and wand movement. A miniscule, slightly graceful flick upwards. Simple enough. Attentively, she moves her wand with a crude precision, her movements solid and stable as she practices wordlessly. Then, she mutters the word again and again, embedding it into her mind. Finally, she puts it together, like a puzzle, the soft action of her voice and the harsh, accurate flicks, perfectly in sync, and the pool of light disappears with a whoosh.

The taste of triumph fills Hermione's mouth, and the corners of her lips slant upwards dynamically. Cautiously, she seals the leather-bound book tightly together. Inspecting the cover, she sweeps the thin glaze of dust from the emblem at the front, holding it tightly. In this strange, ancient book she purchased at a cramped corner store at Diagon Alley, every spell that is of need is written inside, on the centuries old papyrus in that ornate scribble, barely decipherable.

Hurriedly, she confines it in the deepest expanses of her trunk and casts a simple locking spell. Tomorrow, Hermione decides, it will be time for some more… risky spells. They will come in useful, especially when dealing with brainless dunderheads like Abraxas. But if she ever stands opposite someone like Tom Riddle… she will need more knowledge. Darker, more formidable. Hermione nods. Perhaps she will dabble in some simple gray spells, just to start her off…

An extremely large cough from Druella Rosier causes a shiver to run up Hermione's spine. Slowly, she twists around, her eyes slits. Her dormmate is still sleeping, rolling around tirelessly in the soft, jumpy mattresses. A sigh of relief escapes Hermione, and she climbs into bed, eagerly awaiting the next day, the first day of classes. Maybe, she muses, she will be able to _show off_ some of her learning.

Maybe.

Loud voices tear Hermione from her dreams, brutally, with no regret. "Wake up, Mudblood." A deep feminine voice snarl. Laughs accompany the words, one high, and tingling, like a bell on a clocktower ringing into the morning sky, one rough, callous, with a malicious edge.

In the blink of one of her chocolate brown eyes, a freezing stream of water is dumped over her head, completely shaking her. Within seconds, Hermione shoots up from the puddles of water that pool around her once comforting pillows, fury etched onto her harsh features. A vehement hiss escapes her, and her eyes scrutinize her attackers. She recognizes her dormmate, Druella, tall and slender, with shimmering black locks. Beside her, a petit girl leans onto the cold stone wall, regarding Hermione in silence, with freckles and brown waves up to her shoulder, with a slight reddish hue. Her name was Yaxley, maybe? Yes. Lysandra Yaxley. The third student is a broad-shouldered blonde, with scathing blue eyes. Ursula Steel? No, it was Flint.

Their appearances are so widely different. Yet the only thing that makes them similar is the broad sneer emblazoning their expressions, clearly ones of distaste. They all said the same thing: you aren't welcome here.

Hermione stands up, chin held high, stance proud. She won't show weakness. She isn't here to make friends, but to learn, to control, to conquer. And anyone in her path would have her pure fury unleashed upon them like a thousand ravaging armies.

This blatant humiliation strikes a chord in Hermione. For a second, she regrets not learning any dark spells, because she wanted to make them pay, to have them on their knees begging for mercy, for forgiveness, all to heal her wounded ego…

So, she stands there, dripping wet, her glare piercing through the other girls. Druella smiles cruelly, and she gestures towards Hermione vaguely. "Thought we wanted to wake you up. So, you wouldn't be late for breakfast." Her words are dripping with an ugly maliciousness, brimming with sarcasm.

Hermione can return the favour.

"I appreciate your _obvious_ concern for my wellbeing."

Then something clicks in her mind, connecting the thousands of little cables and wires to make the lightbulb pop. Dark spells. Lumos. She wanted to make them pay.

But what classified something as a dark spell? The user. The intent. For example, if Hermione cast a Wingardium Leviosa, she could dangle someone extremely high and let them drop. And if she applied that same principle to Lumos, she would have something to work with.

A victorious smirk graces Hermione's lips, as she stands, wet from her feet to her toes, her masses of hair obscuring her sight. Druella frowns, confused by the smile that burst with triumph. Leering, she tales a large, insecure step towards Hermione. Her confident demeanor vanishes within seconds. The other girls stand aside and watch, silent like the shadows, ready to melt into the darkness should the situation escalate.

Within the space of a brief second, Hermione spins around, her hands desperately fingering for her wand. Hurriedly, she grabs it, clutching it tightly in her right hand. A new wave of confidence washes over her. "Should have taken my wand." She taunts, dancing lightly on her feet, ready for any physical attack.

Druella reddens, the blood tinging her cheeks, her fists curling around each other. With a swift movement, she reaches for her wand, and points it starkly at Hermione. She opens her mouth, ready to perform an incantation and…

A feral grin creeps on Hermione's pale complexion as she whispers the words she has practiced thoroughly. "Lumos Maxima." Her voice was quiet, deadly, lethal.

From the tip of her wand, an enormous sphere of luminescent light erupts, a volcano exploding in the night sky. Druella stumbles back, and instinctively raises her hands protectively over her face. Yet the light grows, brighter and bigger, encompassing Druella, circling around her like a predator, ready to strike, until it completely encloses her in a flurry of white. For a moment, silence reigns, yet its rule is broken by a piercing scream cutting through the air and the shimmery veil of light. Druella.

"Nox!" Hermione yells brusquely, the light seeping back into her wand, rapidly. Then, there is only darkness.

Out of it trips Druella, looking to the ground, pained, waving wildly with her arms, panicking. They flail around her, like propellers, as she stumbles about, finally coming to halt as she crashes face forward into a bedpost with a deafening thud.

Lysandra is the first to regain her voice. Pale as a ghost, she chokes out the words tersely. "Oh, my goodness... she's… she's… she's BLIND! Get Madam Whittaker, immediately!" The shock is clear on her face. Her hands scratch the wall to find a steady position. Then, she turns to Hermione, a deep fear apparent in her hazel eyes. A whimper finds its way to her. "What did you do to her?" Two glassy tears roll down her protruding cheekbones.

Hermione doesn't say a word.

Yet she knows the answer.

"Come in!" Headmaster Dippet's voice echoes across the corridor, and the stone phoenix guarding the headteacher's office circles to the side, its suspicious eyes regarding Hermione in silence. She steps in, an air of defiance accompanying her, floating around her. The office is decorated with portraits and other strange, mystical artefacts, from many lands around the globe.

In the center of the room rests a desk, wooden and cluttered. The headmaster rests behind it, a stern face providing an unusual occurrence to the normal jolly demeanor. Professor Dumbledore and her head of house, Professor Slughorn flank him. Dumbledore wears a condemning face, yet Slughorn doesn't have the decency to look even mildly angry, no, he looks impressed.

Professor Dippet sighs heavily, and gestures towards the lone chair on the other side of the desk. Quickly, he readjusts his glasses. "Take a seat." He instructs, frowning gravely.

Hermione stays standing.

Dippet pretends to ignore her defiance. "Miss Granger, I assume you know why you are here?" He doesn't even hesitate to let her anwser. "You have committed a grave offence. You injured a fellow student, a housemate no less. Tell me, Miss Granger. What exactly did you do? The reports vary." He bends forwards, and takes out a small spotted handkerchief, wiping so sweat of his forehead."

Hermione answers in a monotone voice, her hands wrung together behind her back. "I don't know sir." She says, her voice an abyss of ice, as she tells him her well-rehearsed answer.

Professor Dippet nods, not entirely convinced, as he crosses his arms. "Professor Dumbledore interviewed some of the other students. They say you cast a Lumos spell." He regards her with caution.

Hermione shrugs nonchalantly. She stares to her toes, hoping Professor Dippet believes it was an accident. "I don't know. You see, Druella said something rude, and then, as a joke, I grabbed my wand to tell her to stop, and it just happened. It was like a monster of light bounding from my wand, and I tried to stop it, but it had already encompassed Druella."

Leaning back in his chair, Dippet sighs, his eyes narrowing.

An innocent smile appears on Hermione's face. For good measure, she adds: "But Druella is alright, isn't she? I haven't been able to see her, and I do hope she's okay." She can see Dippet visibly relax in his seat. Her lies have apparently fooled him. Hermione breathes a sigh of relief.

Professor Dumbledore intervenes. "From what I've heard, the light must have been awfully bright. And to blind someone that way… it must have had extreme power behind it." His eyes go blurry behicccccnd his spectacles, as if he were deep in thought. Hermione throws a sideways glance at Slughorn. He perks up at the mention of great power.

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Hermione slips on a façade of surprise. "You mean it was accidental magic? Because I don't think I would be capable of feet of such great power, if you know what I mean, Professor Dumbledore."

Dumbledore inspects her, his suspicious gaze staring right through her lies. "Perhaps. The only spell I can think of the recreates the effect of such a feet would be Lumos Maxima, but- "He breathes in, raising a delicate eyebrow. "-that is a third-year spell, and as you said, you would not be capable of such. Is that correct, Miss Granger?" The sarcasm is layered on heavy, yet neither Slughorn or Dippet notice. Slughorn seems to be entranced by the prospect of her preforming a third-year spell, when she has not yet had her first day of classes.

"That is correct, professor." Hermione confirms. It worries her that Dumbledore can so easily read her secrets. He knows.

Dippet snaps his fingers impatiently. "Well, the case is clear. It must have been a burst of accidental magic. Druella Rosier has come to no permanent harm. I don't think there is a need for Miss Granger to be punished. Quite the opposite, in fact. Her concern for her housemate is extraordinary."

Hermione can barely suppress a smile. Dippet grins at her. "Well, I think you can go now. You have lots of interesting classes now." With a flamboyant gesture, he directs her to the exit. Hermione smiles politely. Professor Dumbledore stares at her, suspicion in his gaze. "We'll be keeping an eye on you and that accidental magic of yours. It seems to be quite _interesting_. Until next time."

Professor Dippet gives a hearty laugh. "Have fun, Miss Granger."

And then, they leave her standing in front of the large stone phoenix. Hermione closes her eyes, smirks at how easy it was to convince Dippet and Slughorn of her lies. She played them like a fiddle. But she cannot help but remember that piercing stare Dumbledore gave her, and all she can think is that he knows.

He knows. He knows. He knows.


	4. - ' Watch and Learn ' -

**Chapter 4**

Hermione strolls through the unwelcoming stone corridors, fingers secured firmly around the leather handle of her bag. Its heavy, tugging down her arms, and the temptation to cast a featherlight charm is outweighed by only the need not to be discovered. Her gaze juts to the glossy paper in her other hand, resting easily on her palm. Her schedule. She's already missed her first class because of the meeting with Headmaster Dippet. Astronomy. Sighing grievously, Hermione memorizes the rest of her classes for the day. Never mind. She can catch up with the material easily.

A reserved chuckle makes her jump. Instantly, she shifts her head, her wide-eyed gaze staring straight into the deep, jaded eyes of Tom Riddle. Out of instinct, she adopts a protective stance, chin held high, arms crossed tightly across her chest, her hands clutching her bag tightly. Tom smirks roguishly, seemingly amused by her reaction but doesn't mention it. "You got off easy, didn't you?" he drawls, punctuating every syllable of the sentence. "Half of Slytherin told Dumbledore that you tried to murder Druella, but apparently that was irrelevant to our dear Headmaster Dippet."

Hermione shrugs, grinning madly while shaking her head. "Apparently."

Tom gives her a coy smile, fleshing a set of pearly white teeth. "He's a fool, isn't he?" He stares down at his fingers and moves them as if he were controlling a marionette. Looking back up to Hermione, his plastic expression drops, leaving his green eyes. They are soulless pits. "So easily manipulated." The provocation in his tone is clear, growing by the second.

Spinning away from him, Hermione lets her gaze trail the stone walls. She can hear Tom behind her, as he lifts his head to her ear. "But Dumbledore isn't." He whispers, his breath tickling the back of her neck. She can feel her hairs standing up at the back of her neck, and she recoils, quivering slightly. Hurriedly, she recollects herself and wheals back around. Chocolate brown meets mossy green in a fiery battle of stares. A fleeting upwards quirk of Tom's mouth reveals his amusement.

Suddenly, his tone goes bitter. "Believe me, I would know." He turns away, his fingers curling into his fist. It seems to be a slip of the tongue, and Hermione momentarily remembers the piercing, almost accusing look Dumbledore shared with Tom before the sorting. It intrigues her greatly.

In a soft voice, Hermione murmurs, "He's a puzzle. If he weren't head of Gryffindor, I would guess he's a Slytherin."

Tom Riddle stiffens slightly, his action barely noticeable - forever the enigma. For a brief second, he hesitates. "He's a true puzzle. Cunning, too." He mutters lowly, mostly to himself. He snaps his fingers impatiently, as if talking about Dumbledore distresses him. Strange, Hermione thinks. He brought up the topic in the first place.

Hermione snorts. "Unlike Malfoy."

Tilting his head, Tom shrugs nonchalantly. "Malfoy is a fool. A fool with a politically powerful father, but albeit a fool."

"So why do you spend time with him frequently then, if he's the fool you describe?" Hermione questions, although she can already guess his answer.

Irritation crosses his face. "I thought you were smart, Granger. It's what I said. He has a powerful father. Think about how much connections help people." He muses absentmindedly, his gaze glazing over, lost deep in thought.

Hermione frowns, snapping her fingers impatiently. "I'm not here to make an ally or _worse_ , friends." She says curtly. "I'm here to learn. To gain power. To conquer." Her voice soars in confidence, growing louder in a steady crescendo.

"A man without an ally is a man without power."

For a second, Hermione cannot help but snigger. "Keep on dreaming, Riddle. I'll leave you in your own little cloud up there." She points upwards, a rueful grin on her pale face.

Riddle regards her in an icy silence. "Believe me, it isn't me who's delusional. Maybe Cygnus was right. You are a piece of dirt. Too stupid to recognize her superiors." He musters her outraged expression and smiles, a true, feral smile. He tilts his head once again. "Next class is Charms, mudblood."

Hermione stares up at him, dropping her bag in furious surprise. Hatred adorns her vision, paints it a sanguine red. An ire hiss escapes her sharp tongue. "You'll pay for that, you menace." She whispers, venomously, her lonely voice echoing of the cold stones. And for a mere moment, she feels small, inconsequential, insignificant. A little girl lost in a new world, unknowing. That's what Riddle sees her as. Again, the vexation starts brewing in her, against Riddle, against Dumbledore, against everyone in the world.

She'll prove him wrong. Cost what it may.

"Granger, Hermione!" The Professor calls, with an enthusiastic voice, the energy ringing from her tone. Her head snaps to where Hermione is sitting alone, on a wobbly wooden bench on the right side of the classroom.

"Present." The lack of interest in Hermione's voice makes the Professor frown. Hermione stares up to meet her eye. The woman is tall, with dark skin and sky-blue eyes and thick eyebrows, and a bright grin.

The Professor moves on, slightly fazed by Hermione. Out of the corner of her avid stare, she observes Hermione with a little caution. When finished with the register, she flicks her ebony wand exquisitely, letting the paper float daintily and settle onto her cramped desk, cluttered with books.

The woman introduces herself as Tammy Oswald, an enthusiastic traveler and their charms teacher. The whole time she smiles widely, the liveliness radiating of her. Then, they begin to learn their first spell.

Professor Oswald grins excitedly. "Now, the first charm I learnt when I was your age was Wingardium Leviosa." She winks at the class. "It's a rather useful charm. It's used to lift things. Let me show you." With a vigorous nod, she moves her wand briskly in a triangular motion, and a red manual lifts from her desk, knocking off a large pile of books in the process.

Oswald doesn't notice, until the vehement giggles of the crowd of students alert her. Spinning around, she groans. "That's the third time it's happened today. Give me a second." With a few more charms, the books soon return to their places. After demonstrating the wand motion, she creates pairs for the students, and gives them each a feather to practice. When she walks past Hermione, she notices her lack of partner.

"Miss Granger, you don't have a partner!" The professor exclaims, opening her arms widely. Hermione rolls her eyes at the exaggerated movement. Politely, she replies.

"If the circumstances will allow it, I would prefer to work alone, Professor." She gives the professor a friendly smile.

Oswald doesn't seem to hear her. "Hmm." She muses, a sparkle in her eye. "Who can I pair you up with?" She's frantically turning around, her gaze searching intently for a free space. Then, delight appears on her face. "There's a seat free next to Mr Malfoy. You can work with him!" The teacher says fervently, ushering Hermione to stand up.

Grinding her teeth together in annoyance, Hermione stuffs her belongings under her arms. Stalking towards the table, she smashes her bag onto it with force. Her glare hits Malfoy, who glares back.

The Professor lowers a feather in front of her, the color a chalky white. "Have fun Miss Granger. It's a wonderful charm, isn't it?" Oswald says, beaming, in a passionate way. Leaving the professor to babble about her subject, Hermione turns to Malfoy, who is swishing his wand randomly whilst reciting the charm. Hermione sniggers.

Malfoy looks at her, furious. "Something funny, mudblood?" He hisses, rage apparent in his tone. Hermione grins spitefully, before answering in a singsong voice. "Nothing, Malfoy."

"Tell me!" He demands, banging his fist on the wooden table with a thud. He glowers at her, back hunched. Hermione laughs, amusing herself at Malfoy's expense. "Well, you are never going to cast the charm moving the wand like that. Didn't you listen?" In a way, Hermione supposes, it's a rhetorical question. Malfoy crosses his arms, eyes narrowed into slits.

"I'm doing it right."

Hermione gestures towards the feather with an eyebrow raised. "Why isn't it floating then?" She asks sweetly, before mimicking his wand movements dramatically. Meanwhile, Malfoy reddens, until his complexion is similar in color to a sunburnt tomato.

"If you are so good at it," He spits, his face twisted into a grimace. "Do it." He points towards the feather, and peers at her, eager for her reaction. Hermione chortles as she sees his smug expression. Shrugging her shoulders casually, she smiles. "Of course, watch and learn, Malfoy."

Swiftly, she scrutinizes Malfoy, to make sure he's watching. Then, she picks up her wand and twirls it in her hand. Moving it in a triangular motion, she chants the incantation. "Wingardium Leviosa!" With a flick, the feather picks up from the ground, flying higher and higher. The professor runs to Hermione and watches the feather, awed. "Look everyone! Miss Granger has managed it! And so quickly too!" she claps her hands in joy, before patting Hermione on the back. "Take five points to Slytherin!"

Out if the corner of her eye, Hermione spies on Malfoy's gob smacked face. Howling in fury, he indicates towards her roughly. "You cheated! There's no way a Mudblood can do it before a _Malfoy_!" He waves frantically, emphasizing the last word. Then, he glares at her one more time. "This isn't over, Mudblood."

Hermione smirks at him. "I'm sure it isn't."


	5. - ' Count me in ' -

**Chapter 5**

The rest of the day after charms is rather uneventful, considering the rather exciting past occurrences. Soon, Hermione decides to make her way back to the dungeons.

As she paces through the desolate corridors, the faint echoes of her footsteps bounce off the walls. Other than that, it is eerily silent. Hermione carries her heavy books carefully under her arm, gripping the old leather covers tightly. For a second, her fingers slip off the chalky paper, yet she quickly readjusts her grip. Swallowing, Hermione turns away, the silence unsettling her slightly. Then, a frigid wind blows behind her, sending a trickle down her spine. Wide eyed, Hermione spins around, only for a transparent figure to float around the corner.

The figure wears a large hat and a wide grin, with a malicious edge, and holds a short, wooden walking stick. More noticeable is the loud singing coming from his mouth. "Old Pyne is slightly mad, how very sad!" The figure cackles with malicious glee, rubbing together his hands excitedly. Then, his crazy stare falls onto Hermione.

"And who might you be?" He asks with a glimmer of mirth in his eye.

Hermione looks up inquisitively at the person. No, not a person. He appears to be a ghost. But ghosts can't hold physical objects, can they? No. "I'm Hermione Granger."

The ghost winks at her. "Peeves to your service!" He shouts energetically, yet his shoulders droop noticeably and he frowns mournfully. "You're the first that hasn't run away."

Giggling, Hermione gestures towards Peeves. "Well, you aren't exactly the scariest thing I've seen."

Peeves laughs maniacally, fleshing his teeth. "I think you're very much mistaken." He says, throwing his arms, wide, exaggerating the very.

Sniggering, Hermione almost drops her books. Recollecting herself, she grins. "This isn't scary, this is just amusing."

Peeves scratchin his ear, a crease appearing on his forehead. "Well, the other firsties run away pretty quickly." He declares, a hint of pride apparent in his voice. He nods, as if pleased by his proclamation. Sighing, he floats down to Hermione, sitting beside her on the cold floor like a little child, legs crossed. "But you don't! Why?"

Hermione rolls her eyes. "I've already said. You aren't very scary." Then, a thought overcomes her. "What are you actually?" She asks, sitting down next to him.

"A poltergeist." A familiar voice answers, yet it wasn't Peeves'. Hermione spins around, eyes narrowed, and comes face to face with Hesper Black. His long black hair is unkempt, and his stormy grey eyes sparkly with curiosity. As always, a shiny silver badge is attached to his robes. Then, his gaze falls to Peeves, and his brows knit together tightly.

"Hush Peeves." He says, shooing the Poltergeist away with a sweep of his hand. Peeves opens his mouth to retort, yet Hesper cuts him of abruptly. "Or I'll tell the Baron." Grudgingly, Peeves stands up, and hops along the corridor, before lifting into the air and disappearing in a puff of smoke.

Hesper grins, seemingly amused. "Well Granger, you're the first one I've seen who's had the idea to make friends with Peeves. Funny little person isn't he?"

Hermione nods mutely, and stands up, still clutching her bags tightly.

Smiling kindly, Hesper helps her up from the floor. Shifting his weight to the other foot, he waves his wand. "A featherweight charm." He explained. "It- "

Interrupting him, Hermione recites in a monotone voice, "It makes the object you cast it on lighter. Invented by Cornelius Blooms in 1683." She pauses, and then adds, "The name is pretty self-explanatory."

The head boy winks and crossed his arms. "Now you can cast it on your bags without having to fear of being discovered. You have the excuse that I cast it for you."

Hermione's jaw drops. "You know I've been self-studying?"

Rolling his eyes, Hesper shrugs indifferently. "I've had my suspicions. I know everything that's going on in Slytherin. I'm head boy for a reason." Suddenly, he peers at her strangely. "Also, how did you know about the Lumos Maxima? I know you have the power to cast it, but where did you get it from?"

"A book from Borgin and Burkes."

Hesper roars with laughter. "You? Borgin and Burkes. Most adult witches and wizards don't have the guts to go there with all the dark artefacts lying around…" Then, his face goes serious. "Well, you aren't like most witches and wizards, are you? A Slytherin mudblood." He murmurs quietly. "Curious indeed. Which is why I wanted to talk to you."

Hermione stares up at him, scrutinizing him. "You wanted to talk to me?"

Nodding, Hesper brushes some of his lengthy hair away from his eyes. "Yes. I've wanted to talk to Riddle too, but Callidora did it instead. Maybe Orion, as he shows a bit of potential. Not sure yet."

"Why?" Hermione questions. The more Hesper says, the more it intrigues her.

"Because you are the only ones with a bit a cunning. I mean, look at people like Malfoy." He snorts derisively. "They certainly are ambitious, a Slytherin trait, but think only their family name will be enough to fulfill their ambitions. They're wrong. What me and Callidora are trying to do is educate those that show promise. To save the Slytherin name before it gets completely dragged through the mud."

Hermione taps her foot. "So, you don't care that I'm a so called Mudblood?"

Hesper shakes his head. "I personally think it helps. It makes those like Malfoy realize that foolish prejudice and flaunting your name won't get you far. Because you'll get further. Additionally, the muggleborn's heritage that's the problem. It's the fact that many don't try to integrate themselves into the magical world. Some come rushing in here trying to change our customs without considering why we are like we are."

He musters her carefully. "But you Granger, you have the potential to do something great. And you are ready to work for it. I appreciate it. And I'll help you with it. For Slytherin." He smiles at her.

Hermione smirks. Maybe Tom was right. Allies can get you far. And Hesper has connections. He's from an old family. "I'm not doing this for Slytherin, but still, I'm gaining something from this- "She pauses, debating what to call it.

"Alliance?" Hesper suggests.

"Alliance." She agrees. "Count me in."

Hesper rubs his hands together in glee. As he lets himself sink into the fluffy green cushions lining the armchair, he watches the fire in the fireplace flicker in shades of orange and green. Leaning back, his stare flicks to his watch, silver and sleek, on his left arm. The hands both point to the roman numeral XII. Twelve. The solitary common room is silent, until the familiar rhythm of her footsteps reaches Hesper's ear. Standing up, he smiles warmly. "Callidora!" He greets her, brushing a few loose strands from her blond braids. She kisses softly, before positioning herself on the armchair opposite to him. With a wave of her wand, she casts a charm, so no one can hear them.

"So how did the talk with Granger go?" she asks, leaning back, shoulders relaxing against the soft material of the armchair.

"Well." Hesper admits. "I think she'll be interesting to talk to. She'll get far in life, I'm sure."

Callidora laughs leisurely, amusement on her face. "Is that even up for debate. Of course, she will. Riddle will too." She muses.

Hesper shakes his head, a glint in his stormy eyes. "They are so eerily similar, are they not? I wonder if they've noticed."

Positively beaming, Callidora snaps her fingers. "You're right. Although they do hate each other." she twirls her hair around her finger. "Although, to be fair, most of Slytherin hates Granger."

Grimacing, Hesper tilts his head. "Especially Cygnus."

"Especially Cygnus." Callidora agrees. She pauses, and after a while asks, "I'm not looking forward to him being one of my students."

Hesper jumps up, surprise on his face. "It's confirmed with Professor Dippet?"

"Yes! I talked to Professor Dippet if I could stay as an Astronomy teacher next year, you know, because Professor Hodge was retiring, and he said yes!" Callidora says, her voice rising in frequency. The joy on her face was pure.

Smiling in happiness for his girlfriend, Hesper takes her hand delicately, as if she were made of glass. "And after I get myself a job at the ministry, we can move in together. I talked to my mother, and she found a lovely cottage in Hogsmeade that's currently vacant."

Callidora nods, her deep eyes staring into his. "Although we'd have to marry before. I don't think your father would approve of use living together without being married. You Blacks and your propriety." She pokes Hesper accusingly, yet the love is clear in her gaze.

"I'm not as bad as everyone else in my family." Hesper protests, amusement in his tone. "I mean, can you imagine marrying Cygnus?"

Callidora giggles, grimacing. "Why would I imagine that? I would be traumatized." She shudders, and both of them laugh.

And there they stand, in front of the fireplace, staring into each other's eyes as the moon shines through over Hogwarts, bathing the castle in a silver light…


	6. - ' Once a freak, always a freak ' -

**Chapter 6**

 _Dear Miss_ _Granger, Please note that the new school year will begin on September the first. The Hogwarts Express will leave from King's Cross Station, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o'clock._ _  
_ _Third-years are permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade at certain weekends. Please give the enclosed permission form to your parent or guardian to sign._ _  
_ _A list of books for next year is contained within._ _  
_ _Yours sincerely,_ _  
_ _Professor_ _  
_ _Deputy Headmaster_

Hermione reads through the letter in seconds, skimming the lines eagerly. Hogwarts. She'll return to Hogwarts. She breathes a sigh of relief as she leans back against the white wall of her room. A quick glance outside shows her nothing but gray clouds littering the sky and rain pouring from them. Richard and Jean must be downstairs then. She scowls at the thought of them. Stupid Muggles. Her parents.

Swiftly, she opens the oak door, out of her room, and runs hastily down the stairs, with light, feathery footsteps. She jumps the last two, and lands with grace on the dark brown floorboards. Through the archways, Hermione spies on Jean and Richard resting on the couch, arms around each other, smiling up at each other, their gazes locking firmly in place.

"Jean? Richard?" Hermione asks sweetly, holding the yellow parchment tightly in her willowy fingers. She's never called them Mum or Dad, not after her magic started showing. In a way, their unconditional fear of it opened her eyes to the world. In a queer way, its their fault she's a Slytherin.

Her parents break up, their stares snapping to Hermione, their eyes narrowing in fear. Her mother answers with a shaky nod, looking intensely at the letter Hermione clutches, with a pained expression. The letter which confirmed her daughter's freakishness. "I need you to sign this." Hermione demands, crossing her arms over her chest. Jean and Richard nod slowly, hesitating. With a cruel smirk Hermione adds, "School stuff." She knows their reaction.

Instantly, her parents pale, and she can see Richard shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Of course." He gives her an anguished smile, his gaze flitting to his wife briefly, who turns away from Hermione, instead looking at the fireplace. The fireplace. Brick and old, decorated with photographs from when she was a toddler. Before her magic began showing. When her parents used to love her, not fear her.

Hermione stalks towards the couch and hands the permit to Richard. Jean cowers away from her, still avoiding her stare. "I want it back tomorrow. Understood?" Hermione orders, receiving a shaky movement of Richard's head in reply. "Good." He whispers. "Just one thing." He says, as Hermione spins on her heels and walks to the archway.

"What?"

Richard glances around at his warmly furnished living room. "Please Hermione, please keep your… _school things_ in your room. You know they distress Jean." He murmurs, his hand patting his wife's back. Hermione gives a smile in response, fleshing her teeth. "Of course." Is the sugar sweet reply, coated with a sort of sour icing?

Hermione bursts into a fit of giggles. They are humorless, full of bitterness. What has she done to deserve parents like this, who were afraid of every sound she emitted, gave in to her every whim? Hermione doesn't know. She probably never will.

Instead of going to her room, she walks outside. As she opens the large front door of the house, she glances back for a second, through the archway. Her parents are still sitting there. Then, Hermione walks away.

The cold drops of rain hit the cobble below her as she steps onto them, the water running into the cracks. She makes a few turns at a few roads and navigates her way through muggle London. After a while, Hermione comes face to face with a small playground, lonely and silent, obscured by merely a few trees, hiding the grounds from plain sight.

A solitary swing set lies in the center, colored a bright red, and a sandpit and slide rest on the far side. Some football goals have been put up, normally the most popular item, but like the others, now, they are deserted.

Hermione sits down on the swing, her pale hands coiling around the harsh metal chains. Closing her eyes, she listens to the rain pat the ground, and she swings slightly backwards and forwards, finding a rare moment of peace in the darkness. If it would only last.

A voice tears her from her dreams, loud and stout. Lazily, Hermione lets her one of her eyelids flutter up, peering at a boy her age, with grimy face and arched eyebrows. His friend stands next to him, crossing his arms. "What are you doing here?" The boy asks in a rough accent.

She doesn't answer, yet merely tilts her head slightly to the side. Stupid muggles and their games. The boy glares at her. "Get of the swings. Me and my friend want a go." He hisses at her. Then, his eyes narrow as he musters her. "Wait, I know you." His voice is filled with surprise.

"Maybe." Hermione allows herself.

The boy shouts out. "You're the freak I went to Primary with. Granger was it?" His face turns taunting, his smile spiteful. "Once a freak, always a freak, my ma used to say. Seem she was right."

Her fists curl together, chin held high. This is one of the reasons why she hates muggles. Their constant bullying, their fear of the unknown, so instead, they belittle it, taunt it. Their constant need to feel better than others. Oh, how she wants to hex him so much. But the temptation is only outweighed by the face she doesn't want to get expelled. Let him taunt her. She won't react, no, she'll sit motionlessly there, bearing his silly insults. He is only a muggle after all. Not worth the trouble.

Hermione shivers involuntarily, as a glacial gust of wind blows her way, hitting her square in the face. Wrapping her arms around her freezing body, she huddles further into her fur jacket.

It's almost Christmas, and Hogsmeade is exceedingly cold at this time of year. Especially here, on the hill overlooking the village, the cold is almost unbearable, but the stunning view renders it unimportant. The haggard limbs of a tree hang above her, as she leans against its thick trunk, her fingers tracing the snow on the ground.

Beneath her, students bustle excitedly through the streets of Hogwarts, their hushed whispers echoing through the streets, filling the small village with an unusual liveliness. The happiness radiates from their red faces, peeking out from wooly scarves and hats, clutching large bags filled with sweets and chocolates and presents. Here, on her little hill, she is alone.

For a while, at least.

Suddenly, the stomping of boots in the snow and ice alerts her. Hermione frowns as a familiar figure makes his way up. "Riddle." She spits, her tone matching the icy weather. Her expression hardens as he fully comes into view.

Tom Riddle glares at her, an arrogant spark present in his eyes. "Mudblood." He responds, his voice monotone as always, with that infuriating smile that makes Hermione want to tear out her mop of bushy hair. She snorts with mirth. "You sound like Malfoy when you call me that." She tells him, raising an eyebrow.

Elegantly, he walks to her, his gait even. "Well, he started it, so I suppose we all do." He shrugs his shoulders, like it is small, inconsequential.

"Abraxas Malfoy." Hermione hisses venomously. "The most notable example of how the stupidity of animals is still present in humanity today, despite evolution."

Tom doesn't comment, but simply leans against the trunk of the tree, a snort escaping his lips. There's amusement on his face. "Still, Granger, it's good to have powerful friends, even if they might not have the same level of intellect as other friends." He pauses. "Oh, wait, I forgot you don't have any other friends. My bad."

Hermione grinds her teeth together in fury. Normally, having no friends doesn't bother her, in fact, it rather suits her lifestyle. But when Tom Riddle says it… suddenly it bothers her very much. Well, to be fair, she does have two friends, in Callidora and Hesper, even though they graduated two years ago. Thankfully, Callidora remains at Hogwarts as an astronomy teacher, yet Hesper has taken a job at the ministry, travelling overseas and representing Britain at the ICW. According to Callidora, he loves to travel, however, both of them know it is only a pitiful excuse to get away from his horrible relatives, the Blacks, a pureblood family, that is nothing but inbred and mad.

For example, his brother Cygnus. Hermione grimaces as she thinks of him. The git became head boy this year, but thankfully, Callidora could keep him in line. Otherwise, she was sure, she would have been murdered in her sleep.

With a little longing, she remembers her first year, when Hesper first started teaching her about the pureblood houses and politics of the ministry. She was sad to see him go, however, Hermione knows that he'll be back. For his wedding to Callidora. She'd personally assured Hermione she'd be able to attend, despite the Blacks' pretense. "We can use Polyjuice or something." Callidora had said, and Hermione was fine with that.

"Merlin, Granger, are you awake?" Tom Riddle drawls, voice full of disbelief. "You haven't said a thing."

"Go away, Riddle." Hermione murmurs still lost in thought.

Riddle remains standing, a smirk coming from him. "I don't think so. This is fun. You're so easily provoked." He tilts his head to the side, triumph written all over his face. Hermione snarls. He's right, she knows. And she'll show him. In the blink of an eye, her wand is out, pointing straight at his face. "Now." She hisses, furious, face reddening. Tom Riddle grins at the sight of her wand, and shrugs.

"Sure, Mudblood. There's no need to be violent. We can talk this out like civilized people. Oh wait- "

Hermione interrupts him. "I'm not civilized? Nice try at an insult, Riddle, but it's weak when the opposition knows what you're going to say. Now leave." She levels her wand with the height of his face, taking a menacing step forward. She stems the other hand on her hip.

Riddle laughs, before spitting onto the white carpet of snow in front of them. "Mudblood." He repeats, before spinning on his heels and stomping down the hill in fury.

The sweet taste of victory fills Hermione's mouth, and she smiles. A cruel, powerful smile. A crease appears on her forehead. She should talk to Callidora, see how she can sort out this problem once and for all.

Then, an idea pops into her head. She doesn't often apply herself in class, unless she wants to spite Malfoy, so Tom Riddle has the highest grades in the year. However, with a little bit of work, she might be able to overtake him. Yes. People often talk about Riddle's intelligence, but if she's smarter, a little of his power might break.

She smirks. Yes, that might work.

A knock resonates on Callidora's office door. The blonde looks up, rolling her eyes. Most Slytherins come to her with important matters, as Slughorn blatantly ignores those who aren't his favorites.

"Come in!" She calls through the door, her sleek black quill chasing over the parchment, her face scrunching up as she tries to decipher a student's messy scrawl. Then, the door opens with an extended creak and Callidora lifts her head to greet them.

To her surprise, Tom Riddle stand in the doorway. Fury is etched into the pale features of his face, his usually controlled demeanor completely gone. In his left hand, he clutches a list, a yellowy piece of paper. Callidora's face contorts into a grin. If only Hermione were here to see this. She would certainly take pleasure in Riddle's anger.

"Tom!" Callidora says, smiling pleasantly. "How can I help you?" She puts down her quill immediately and beckons him over to her desk. Tom walks to the desk and slams the list onto the table with a thud. "This." He hisses venomously, like a snake. Several unmarked essays float off her desk at the impact, and Callidora frowns disapprovingly. "Careful." She chides, a swish of her wand returning the papers to their original locations. "Please control your emotions in the future, Mr Riddle. May I?" she points to this list, and Tom nods. Callidora picks it up, her eyes skimming over its contents. Then, she looks up inquisitively, regarding Riddle in a cautious manner.

"This is the 3rd years ranking list for grades, if I am not mistaken." She observes. "I don't see a problem here."

Tom smiles politely. "Please look at the top name."

"Hermione Granger." Callidora reads, and her jaw drops in surprise. If she could, she would crow with a laughter. Oh, the girl's brilliant. Seems like Hermione got her revenge after all.

"Again, I don't see a problem here. Miss Granger is an excellent student." Callidora repeats, folding her hands together on her desk.

Tom Riddle leans forwards, crossing his arms over his chest. Fury blazes in his jade eyes as he speaks. "But not better than me. Last year, Hermione Granger was 4th or 5th. How is she 1st now?" he demands.

Callidora shrugs, although she knows the answer. _Revenge._ "Perhaps Miss Granger has simply discovered the importance to apply herself in class. Remember, she is an extremely powerful witch, with all that Lumos business in first year."

Tom doesn't seem satisfied with that answer. "But why now?" He presses. "Besides, she can't have beaten me. I checked. She only started doing well after Christmas and I was doing well before. How?"

Callidora frowns at Tom. "Mr Riddle, perhaps this actually is a lesson for you. You cannot always be the best in life. As I said before, Miss Granger is very talented. Being beaten by her is not something you should dwell on." She lectures him, talking slowly as if she were explaining something to a toddler.

Tom gives a curt nod, yet she can see the pure anger on his face. "Mr Riddle." Callidora says as he turns to leave. "Please refrain from any kind of retribution against Miss Granger. If I hear of such an act, from her or otherwise, I will personally make sure you spend the rest of your academic years in detention with Professor Dumbledore. Understood?"

Riddle doesn't answer, instead, glides from the room with heavy steps trebling with outrage.

Callidora sniggers. Oh, the girl is brilliant. Hermione is brilliant. With glee, she thinks about Hermione's reaction when Callidora tells her this…


	7. - ' Are you afraid of me? ' -

**Chapter 7**

"Merlin, Riddle, is that a prefect's badge? What was Slughorn thinking?" Hermione asks incredulously, raising an eyebrow at the sight of the silver badge pinned to his robes. Riddle shrugs, nonchalantly. "Something surprisingly smart for Slughorn's usual standards." A smirk appears on his face. "I make a rather good prefect, don't you think?"

Hermione rolls her eyes theatrically, slamming her book shut as she looks up at him dubiously. "I can't agree with you there, Riddle. Now get out of my compartment. I'm sure you can go to the snooty prefect's compartment." She crosses her arms in front of her chest and raises her chin ever so slightly.

Tom looks amused, before shaking his head wth mischief. "I don't think so, Granger. Antagonizing you is so much more entertaining." He drawls, threading his fingers through his curly brown hair. "You don't agree?"

Inspecting him warily, Hermione comments dryly. "I think it's rather obvious. The door is there." She points her finger directly towards the compartment exit, tapping her foot against the floor impatiently. " I haven't got all day. Get out before I decide to hex you."

"You couldn't beat me. I'd kill you before you could draw your wand."

A morbid smile spreads across Hermione's complexion. "A person's last mistake is to underestimate me. Now get out." Her hands reach into her pockets and she brandishes her thin vine wand, directing it at Riddle, who chortles at the sight of it.

"Pathetic Granger." He taunts. Then, he sighs. "Got to go, Granger. My nose can't stand being in the presence of such filth." With that, he saunters away, his steps echoing across the train corridor. With a crash, Hermione slides shut the glass door with a wave of her wand, before settling back into the red bench, opening her book. Her fingers trace the spell in front of her. It is a spell text book, fifth year, yet notes in a curly, neat handwriting have been added to the side by her. Currently, her eyes are glued to the Piertotum Locomotor, which animates armourstands and statues. If she takes the pier away, meaning stone, and replaces it with sanguis, meaning blood, could she reanimate things with blood running through their veins? Or even spina, meaning bone? That might work better. Quickly, she takes a quill, and notes down her ideas. When she is finished, she casts a small charm so no other person can read it.

Her lips twist into a predatory smirk. Some of her modifications are rather... dangerous.

The sorting feast this year is rather boring. As usual, Hermione takes her seat at the end of the table. The younger years whisper, point at her, yet avoid her like the plague. Hermione doesn't mind, after all, she's gotten used to it.

When they return to the common room, she sulks in the shadows as Tom Riddle gives the firsties the Slytherin speech about unity, the same one Hesper Black gave her year back in her first year. Not a word about the mudblood is mentioned, and Hermione knows why, so that soon, when she leaves Hogwarts, she'll be forgotten and the great house of Slytherin will be redeemed. A pile of dragon dung. Nevertheless, it is favorable to being murdered in her sleep.

That night, she stays awake, as she always does, reading through her books and spells and modifying them to become more dangerous, more lethal. It brings her great pleasure imagining using them on Riddle or Malfoy. It makes the task much less tedious.

The next day is potions. As usual, Hermione is seated alone at the back. It a fairly ordinary lesson, at the beginning at least. At the end of the lesson, she is last to hand in her potion. As she puts it onto Slughorn's desk, Professor Slughorn coughs loudly. Hermione looks up at him, smiling politely. "Can I help you, Professor?"

Professor Slughorn scratches the back of his ear, nodding slowly. "Well, Ms Granger, I assume you are aware of the Slugclub." He looks at her expectantly, hoping for a noticeable reaction form Hermione.

Hermione grimaces internally. Of course she's heard of it. Slughorn's little club is a collection of star students. It was there solely for the purpose of making connections that might help in later life, yet notorious for its glamorous events. Hermione shrugs indifferently. "The name certainly rings a bell, Professor."

Professor Slughorn chortles, before wringing his hands together nervously. "I was wondering, Ms Granger, if you would be able to join." He peers down at her. "Your academic success is remarkable, and you are already famous for being the Slytherin muggleborn, the first in hundreds of years!"

Narrowing her eyes, Hermione stares at him inquisitively. "And why would I do this? Does it provide me with any benefits? Professor, I am not a fool. This club excites solely for the purpose of making connections, yet I seem fairly capable of making my own." Hermione says, grinding her teeth together. It's a lie, of course, considering she has absolutely zero connections, perhaps with the exception of Callidora and Hesper, yet that's about it. However, she can't make it look like she's dependent on Slughorn. No, she can let him sweat.

An Oh escapes Slughorn's lips, and his face scrunches up almost instantly. "Connections are very useful, Ms Granger. Through the Slug Club, every career is open to you just by mentioning its name. Surely that is enough."

Hermione choose to stay silent.

Slughorn's voice goes higher by several pitches. "I am sure, Ms Granger, you will see the benefits soon. I am hosting an event this weekend, and perhaps you would be interested in tagging along. You can make you decision afterwards. Many others will be there, such as Mr Riddle, whom you are familiar with."

Almost rolling her eyes, Hermione smirks. Tom Riddle is a further reason not to go. However, her mind wonders to Callidora, who would tell her to accept. She does need more connections, and since most Slytherins despise her for being a mudblood, and the rest of the school hates her for being a Slytherin, she is fairly limited in options. This might be an oppportunity...

"I will ponder on it. I will attend the event this weekend, yet I cannot guarantee further attendance."

Slughorn beams, obviously relieved. "Brilliant! On Sunday, at 7 o'clock in the evening in the room next to my office. Everyone will be there. It will be wonderful, Ms Granger, I can assure you."

Hermione, standing orderly in front of a mirror, inspects her appearance criticizingly. She has never held any interest regarding her physical attributes, unlike the many Slytherin girls she has lived with for the past five years, thus making her unaccustomed to the world of fashion. Sadly, Slughorn's meeting requires formal wear, forcing her to pick from a scarcity of dresses.

She wears a dusty pink, sleevless, form fitting dress with a draped bodice. It reaches modestly to her knees, flaring out at mid waist to create an allure. The neckline is not as modest, reaching just above cleavage, but not low enough to seem indecent. Her hair is surprisingly tame after she coaxes it with a large bottle of Sleakeazy's Hair Potion, shaped into controlled waves which reach her halfway down her back. She leans forward indecisively, glancing at herself in the looking-glass and jumping backwards unexpectedly at an ear-piercing squeal.

''Where's my bracelet?"

Druella Rosier stomps angrily as she glares accusingly at Hermione, Lysandra Yaxley and Ursula Flint standing like obedient dogs behind her.

Druella gapes a little, taking in her improved appearance as she attempts to figure out who she is conversing with. The two girls standing behind, sneak looks at each other, as if contemplating the anonymous stranger. The smarter of the three, Lysandra, suddenly grins, putting a name to the face.

''Why bother ask, Druella?'' her shrill voice says, ''It's obvious she's a thief, Granger's a Mudblood for goodness sake.'' Druella gasps haltingly upon that recognition, as if just discovering it was Hermione she had been talking to. ''Nobody could resist the Rosier heirlooms. Of course, not more important than the Yaxley locket, wouldn't you say?" Lysandra drawls, fingering a silver locket which rests on her sternum, completely visible through low V-cut of her dress neckline.

Hermione rolls her eyes, annoyed at the silly antics of the three pure-blooded girls. 'Mudblood this...' and 'Mudblood that...' Did they think she would be affected by such an overused measly insult after five continuous years?

''Are you a witch or what?'' she exclaims, aggravated,''Honestly, cast a simple spell." She declares, refusing to summon the missing heirloom herself. Druella grunts, frustrated as she fumbles around, searching frantically for her wand, Lysandra and Ursula stalking exasperatedly in the background, unable to find an insult to toss at her.

Hermione turns her neck, taking one last quick look at the mirror, before exiting the room using the cramped stone staircases, careful not to trip over the green and silver rugs which carpet it.

When Hermione arrives, the room is almost empty with the exception of Professor Slughorn himself, discussing animatedly with Hesper Black, now a representative of Britain at the International Confederation of Wizards.

For a moment Hermione stands in the doorway, rather awkwardly, before coughing loudly in order to attract attention.

With a large grin decorating his face, Slughorn turns towards her, arms open wide.''Miss Granger, you are early!" He exclaims, his voice filled with surprise.

Hermione allows herself a small smile, and nods. "Well, it's better than being late, I suppose."

Slughorn laughs loudly at her poor attempt at a joke. "Yes, indeed. You look stunning." He gestures towards her dress, and Hermione mumbles a thank you. Out of the corner of her eye, she spies on Hesper trying very hard not to laugh. She shoots him a glare.

"Ms Granger, this is Hesper Black. He represents Britain at the ICW, the international confederation of wizards. An astoundingly charismatic young man. He was headboy when you were in your first year, I believe." Slughorn pats Hesper on the back, and leads him over to Hermione.

A waiter comes past them, handing each of them a glass of butter beer. Hermione takes a sip, before forcing a grin. "We are familiar with each other." More than familiar. Hesper mentored Hermione in her first year, and in her eyes, he was an older brother in all but blood. She knew him and his fiancée Callidora well.

Hesper claps his hands together. "Indeed, Professor."

Suddenly, a footsteps echo outside the door. Professor Slughorn looks up, surprised. "That must be the other guests. If you'll excuse me!" Quickly, he rushes to the door, welcoming the others, leaving Hesper and Hermione alone.

Hesper lowers his voice schemingly, and leans in. "Callidora told me about the stunt you pulled in third year. You know, overtaking Riddle in academics. Apparently he was furious, storming into her office and everything."

A giggle escapes Hermione. "Oh, that. That was ages ago. He still sends me glares in lessons. I'm better than him in Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Transfiguration and Charms. He still is better at Potions and DADA, being first in the class, but I'm a close second."

Nodding apprasingly, Hesper asks, "And what about making connections, finding friends?"

Her shoulders noticeably droop at his statement. "I still don't have many. Any, in fact. All the Slytherins hate me for being a mudblood, and the rest of the school hates me for being a Slytherin. That's why I'm here."

"Good choice. You'll make some connections at these parties. The powerful don't care about your blood, even if they say so. All they care about is power. Some pure blood families, if you benefit them considerably, will turn a blind eye to your blood status." Hesper whispers, his eyes scanning the inflow of guests. He points at a tall man at the side. "For example him. Caius Greengrass. Powerful man. His son, Nero, is a year older. His financial manager is a halfblood. He doesn't seem to mind though after the manager tripled the Greengrass Fortune."

Under her breath, Hermione mutters, "I wouldn't mind either."

Hesper shakes with laughter. "That's the right mindset."

"Hesper, how long are you in England?"

His face scrunches up as he does the maths in his head. "A week or so, if I am not mistaken. After that I have a conference in the US, with the American ministry of magic. About the statue of secrecy. There's been a major violation, and although it's been fixed, there's still some mess to clean up."

A thought pops into Hermione's head. "When's yours and Callidora's wedding? You've been together for what, five years, and you still aren't married. Your parents must be furious."

Hesper sighs. "They are." He admits, a crease appearing on his normally flawless face. "The Blacks are quite conservative, and Mother really wants a grandson. Father doesn't really approve of Callidora having a job anyways, so now, my relationship with them is quite strained.at the moment, my relationship with them is quite strained. And Cygnus is being annoying too."

Attempting a good natured grin, Hermione jokes, "Has Cygnus ever not been annoying?"Attempting a good- natured grin, Hermione jokes, "Has Cygnus ever not been annoying?"

Hesper stares in to the distance. "No, not really."

A man taps him on the shoulder, whispering something in Hesper's ear and his face goes earnest. "Listen, I've got to go. Try to meet new people, make some connections. See you around." With an apologeticSee you around." With an apolgetic shrug, he disappears into the crowd, talking in a hushed manner to the man.

For a moment, Hermione has peacebrief moment, Hermione has piece and quiet, yet suddenly, Slughorn appears in front of her, a young girl tagging along. "Ms Granger, are you enjoying yourself?" He doesn't even wait for an anwser before he continues. "Sorry for disturbing, but I have to introduce Ms Fawley. A charming young woman, much like yourself. The smartest girl in her year. A very promising future." He ushers the girl in front of him. Hermione musters her inquisitively. The girl has wavy auburn hair, which is pinned up on her head. Her dress is simple and modest, and she wears a shy smile.

Remembering Hesper's advice, Hermione sticks out her hand. "Hermione Granger. Slytherin fifth year."

The girl smiles weakly. "Georgia Fawley. I'm in Ravenclaw, in fourth year."

Hermione opens her mouth to say something, but Slughorn interrupts. "I think I must get going, you know, I need to talk to Wilhelm Willowson, you know, the famous quidditch player. He gives me tickets for every season, you know. Ms Fawley, Ms Granger." He nods to both of them, before skipping across the room.

"So, the smartest girl in fourth year?" Hermione comments dryly, earning a roll of the eye from Georgia.

"Yes. The title is rather annoying. I'm only here because my father said I should go." Georgia murmurs, shifting her weight from one foot to another. She seems rather uncomfortable.

"At least you're not stuck with a name like the Slytherin Mudblood. That happens to be what most people know me as." Hermione drawls.

The girl's eyes go wide. "That name is very rude. Father told me I should never use it." She brushes her auburn curls out of her face. "A lot of people in fifth year talk about you. They say mean things, but they seem afraid."

Hermione looks down at the girl. Georgia is extremely small, and Hermione towers over her. With a morbid smile, she asks, "Are you afraid of me?"

Georgia instinctively takes a step back. "You have this intimidating presence about you. In a way, yes. But I don't know you, so I don't think I can judge you very well. My father said that you should never judge a book by its cover, no matter what message the cover conveys."

Grimacing internally, Hermione sighs. That's the third mention of her father in a minute. Georgia seems dependent on him, and judging by the adoration in her voice, loves him very much. Hermione never shared that bond with Richard, her father. For a mere second, she feels a tinge of jealousy, that need to be loved, but pushes it down quickly. She's survived fifteen years without any love.

"Your father is a smart man. He seems to tell you a lot of things."

Georgia nods enthusiastically, her head bobbing up and down. "He's taught me everything I know!" She declared, pride filling her voice, coming out of her shell. Compared to the meager girl Slughorn introduced her too, this version of Georgia seems much preferable.

"The Fawley's are part of the sacred twenty eight, aren't they?" Hermione questions curiously.

"Yes." Georgia confirms. "Ma died when I was little, you see, so I was Father's only heir. He raised me to the best I can be. One day, I will carry on my families legacy, just as my father and his fathers have done before me."

"I wish you all the luck when you do." Surprisingly, Hermione finds herself liking this girl. She's smart, and proud of her family in a way that doesn't seem arrogant, like Malfoy when he talks of his supposingly great ancestors.

Georgia blushes. "Thank you. I hope to see you again. You seem nice. The fifth year Ravenclaw are obviously wrong." She doesn't seem very shocked when she says it.

"You don't really seem to like the Ravenclaws in fifth year. Good choice. They're all complete dunderheads. Like Pollux Prosper." Hermione contemplates aloud, tapping her foot against the stone floor.

At the mention of Pollux's name, Georgia groans. "Prosper is an absolute arrogant toe rag. All he ever does is declare how amazing he is and how we should all listen to him. He's worse than that Malfoy in your year."

Hermione shakes her head. "Pollux Prosper might be irritating, but trust me, Malfoy is worse. He drives me up the wall with his stupidity. It's Malfoy this, Malfoy that. In Malfoy's world, everything seems to revolve around himself." She rants, spite accenting her speech.

Georgia smiles. "Point taken. Basically, we're the only one's with a brain in Hogwarts. Is that what you're saying?"

Hermione pauses for a moment. After a while, she answers. "Yes. That's exactly what I mean."

Both of them burst into laughter. Georgia is grinning from ear to ear. "Friends?" She offers tentatively.

Hermione stares into her eyes. This girl is different, and Hermione thinks she's brilliant. "Friends." She confirms.

And then, a familiar mop of platinum hair surfaces from the crowd. He sneers at them.

"Granger, what are you doing here?"

"Malfoy." Hermione greets in a monotone voice. Both her and Georgia groan simultaneously. Exchanging glances, they turn to face him.

"Oh, C***." Georgia murmurs quietly.


	8. - ' Don't hold back ' -

**Chapter 8**

The next day, the second week of classes began. As Hermione strolls into the great hall, a ton of books clamped under her arm, she knocks into a familiar face with a mane of auburn hair. "Georgia!" She exclaims, surprise evident in her voice.

Georgia looks up, eyes wide with recognition. "Sorry!" she murmurs. "I'm in a rush though. I have DADA today, and they all say Professor Merrythought is really strict." Georgia throws a pointed gaze at the books Hermione is carrying. "Let me guess, Library?" she asks.

Nodding, Hermione grins. "Yes. I have a free period. I'm going to use it for studying. I have DADA too today, in the afternoon. With the Gryffindors." She pulls a grimace.

"Hey, my Mum's a Gryffindor!" Georgia laughs, but she seems unbothered. "See you later!" Running past her, in a flurry of robes, she disappears in the crowd of students exiting the hall.

"I wish I didn't have to see you later." Turning around, Hermione finds the source of the voice, the ever smug face of Tom Riddle. "No one asked for your opinion, Riddle." She hisses back through gritted teeth, but Tom only smirks. "You're easy to provoke today." He observes. Hermione stays silent. "What's the matter, Granger? Cat got your tongue?"

She only glares up at him, defiance pouring from her. Tom only shrugs. "Well, we'll see how you do in DADA when we duel, Granger. Get used to losing your spot as top of the class." He spins away from her and gracefully glides along the tables.

"Wait! How do you know what we're doing in DADA?" Her voice is laced with suspicion.

Tom Riddle doesn't acknowledge her, but she can hear his catchphrase ringing in her head. Quietly, she murmurs the answer to her own question. "A man without friends is a man without power."

Later that day, she makes her way to the DADA classroom, apprehensive. Outside it, a line of students is already forming, bustling and chatting with glee. In the crowd, she can see the glossy brown hair of Tom Riddle, and beside him, the hunching form of Abraxas Malfoy. Eyes narrowed, she joins the line.

After a while, the door opens and a small, thin witch pokes out her head. Neatly styled grey hair sits upon her head, and wrinkles and lines are etched into her aging skin. She stands straight, her head held high. Professor Mary Merrythought, the new DADA teacher.

"Class! Please enter." Her voice is harsh, and the students fall silent at the tone. Already, Hermione can tell: this is not a woman to be messed with.

On the way in, she hears Malfoy boasting his father himself suggested the Professor for the position, and that the Professor is indebted to the Malfoys. For once, she notices she is not the only one who rolls her eyes, but Riddle also. He seems annoyed with Malfoy, and rather than listening to him, is watching the Professor like a hawk.

After the register is done, the Professor announces they will be duelling, just to see their skill level.

The first pair is Druella Rosier and Lysandra Yaxley. A grin sneaks upon Hermione's face as Lysandra completely destroys Druella, reducing the latter to tears, despite their supposed status as friends.

Next, Abraxas Malfoy goes against a Gryffindor, and to Hermione's disappointment, wins. He throws her a grin as the teacher comments on his excellent wand work.

Soon, almost everyone in the class has gone. "Hermione Granger." Professor Merrythought shouts, calling her to the middle of the room. With a drop of her jaw, Hermione realises who is left.

"Tom Riddle!" The professor shouts again, and he saunters through the huddle of students, smirking at her. With an elegant flick, he draws his wand, which glimmers in the light, polished and clean.

Hermione mirrors him, flourishing her wand, intricate and symbols carved along it, and adopts the typical duelling stance. "Don't hold back, Riddle." She calls to him, her brown eyes staring right at him.

He laughs. "I wasn't planning on it."

Professor Merrythought interrupts their exchange. "Three, two, one, BEGIN!" At once, Hermione throws up a shield. "Protego Maxima!" she shouts, and a bright blue glow encompasses her. Several bystanders turn away from the blinding light.

With a snarl, Riddle rains a torrent of spells upon her, and her shield absorbs each, yet it becomes heavy and weak. Quickly, Hermione vanishes her shield and shoots a Stupefy at him. Riddle dodges easily, and shoots a Petrificus Totalus at her, and she dances out of the way.

Then, the true chaos begins. Spell after spell hails upon the two, the ground beneath them cracking with heat and energy. Some of the audience scream and even the teacher shrinks back a little surprised at the surge of power. Hermione wipes sweat from her brow as she blocks his spells, gritting her teeth in fury.

She knows, to win, she's going to have to up her game.

With a Diffindo, she shoots at him. Neither can hear the teacher shouting "NON LETHAL SPELLS ONLY." Even Hermione's arsenal of spells is starting to twindle. Confringo: A Blasting Charm; causes items the charm comes in contact with to burst into flames. Reducto, the Reductor Curse; breaks objects and in its strongest form has the ability to disintegrate them. Sectumsempra, a spell that causes deep gashes on the victim's body.

Hermione twirls around under a barrage of spells, dozens of jets of light leaving her wand. Her movements are sharp, calculated, and she blocks out everything, everything but the dark form of Tom Riddle. She pours the fury, the frustration from all those moments she's been bullied, tormented, humiliated. Every single charm is filled with a heated passion, a passion to destroy.

Hermione notices Tom's right side is weaker. She pulls up another shield, and Tom starts focusing all energy on breaking. But she won't break. After a while, his spells start to weaken slightly, and she notices his pace slowing.

With a final roar of exhaustion, she rips down her shield and aims a Expelliarmus at his rights side. Riddle's eyes widenen, and desperately, he throws up his wand at an attempt to shield himself. But even then, staring through him, Hermione knows she won.

A howl erupts from Riddle as he is thrown across the room, his wand lying meters away from him, unreachable. With a ear piercing crack, his body hits the wall, going limp like a ragdoll.

It is done. The sweet taste of triumph fills Hermione's mouth, and she savors every second of it.

Professor Merrythought regains her posture. "Someone take Mr Riddle to the Infirmary. Malfoy, do it." Trying to control the crowds of students, she doesn't focus on Hermione. With a haughty smirk, she walks to Riddle and helps him up, his stare burning at her.

Hermione Granger. The mudblood who was tormented, and now she's beat _him_. She has him lying in the dirt in front if her, powerless, at her mercy. What a dream.


	9. - ' No He can't be ' -

Tom storms into the Great Hall, his onyx robes billowing dramatically behind him. The humiliation. Beaten by Granger. He still can't believe it. Of all people, Hermione bloody Granger. Oh, how he hates the mudblood. His fists are curled, and his face is still red.

He sits down at the Slytherin table, his jade eyes glaring at the stone wall, avoiding any others. Suddenly, behind Tom, a cough sounds. Turning around, Tom comes face to face with Orion Black, who shifts nervously.

Orion attempts a smile, yet Tom's grimace remains firmly set in place. "Weren't you supposed to be in the infirmary? Professor Merrythought said so. I mean, after last lesson..." The boy doesn't dare mention the DADA lesson to Tom.

"I didn't go." Tom says, slowly, in his signature drawl. "Since when do I take orders from anyone, Black? You especially should know."

Orion moves closer conspicuously, back hunching over. "Is there a meeting tomorrow?" He asks, his soft voice barely audible.

Putting his fork down, an idea forms in Tom's mind. "I forgot about that..." Straigtening his back, he smirks. "Yes. Tell the others. Room of requirement." He whispers to Orion.

"Is there anything else?"

Grinning, Tom bows his head. "I want all information on Granger you can find. But that'll be all. Go now. We're drawing attention to ourselves." Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Professor Merrythought staring down at him, her gaze suspicious. Tom sighs. The spells Granger and he used in the duel were not exactly harmless. He can understand why the Professor might be on her toes.

"Leave now." He orders again, still watching the Professor.

He is enough trouble as it is.

Creeping through the Hallway, Tom pulls out his wand, eyes snapping around, watching. Then, he moves to the other side, where a blank wall of stone greets him. With a hint of a smile, he taps the cracking bricks with his wand. Slowly, the wall morphs into a grand stone door, delicate engravings and patterns framing it.

With a creak, the door slides open. There, in the room, is a long wooden table, with figures sitting along it, faces turned towards Tom. As he enters, they stand up, and bow their heads respectfully, eyes downcast.

Tom takes his seat at the head of the table, settling into the chair comfortably with his arms curling around the armrests. Tilting his mouth, he speaks, his voice echoing across the room.

"Sit."

They follow his orders. The fireplace at the end of the chamber is crackling, and candles hang along the walls.

The figure on his right, Orion Black, clad in dark robes, stands up. "My lord, we have collected information on the mudblood." He says, and thrusts a pile of papers towards Tom.

Tom scans the paper, devoid of any emotion, eyes staring blankly at the information. Orion Black bows hastily dropping his head to stare at his shoes, his figure shuffling uncomfortably.

Quickly, Tom scans the papers. Hermione Granger, born September 19th 1926, daughter of Doctor Richard and Jean Granger. Attended Greenwood Primary in London. Nothing of interest. Tossing the paper to the side, he fixes Orion with his glare.

"This is a pile of rubbish."

Orion steps back, shivering slightly. His voice stutters. "My lord, we did as you asked."

A harsh look crosses Tom's face. With a sneer, he stands up, discarding his chair with his wand. It crashes into the wall, splintering into a thousand pieces. "Are you truly that ignorant?"

Surprise flashes on Orion's face. "Pardon me?"

Tom regards him coldly. "If I wanted an ignorant fool to serve the Knights of Walpurgis, I would have picked Malfoy for this. There is a reason he isn't here." He gestures to the stack of papers on the table. "This information is useless. How is this supposed to help me render Granger harmless? How?"

Silence resounds in the room.

Sighing loudly, Tom repairs his chair and sits down. "Seeing as you are all incapable of dealing with this issue, I must do it myself." He lets his stare pierce the others. "Any suggestions?"

Again, there is no answer.

Orion Black stands up again, his small hands fidgeting nervously. He brushes his hair from his face. "I'm sorry, my lord."

Leaning forwards, a laugh escapes Tom's mouth, yet it is dry and rueful. "Oh Orion." He whispers. "If sorry could make it better, I would have you kneel and beg for forgiveness."

He then spins to face the rest of the members. "Now, Rowle, Lestrange, how is the recruiting going? Any hidden talents interested in serving the noble Knights of Walpurgis?"

The two mentioned students cower in their chairs.

Tom speaks, voice rises in a steady crescendo. "We are the Knights of Walpurgis. We are the salvation of the wizarding world. For years, innocent purebloods have been oppressed in society. We will stop that. When we are done with this world, worthy purebloods will rule and dirty mudbloods like Granger will be grovelling at our feet. The mudbloods may have taken our world from us, but we will take it back! And for that, I need you. Every single one of you."

A victorious smirk appears on Tom's face. "Now, Rowle, Lestranger, I'll ask you again. How is recruiting going?"

Rowle and Lestrange both stand up, and begin to talk. Tom smiles to himself. Fools.

After the meeting has ended, Tom finds himself going to the library. It is closed, and silent. As he opens the door, a cold waft of air blows into his face. With a flick of his wand, he casts a disillusioning spell. He is invisible, free to go wherever he wants.

His feet carry him to the restricted section. His pale hands lock around the golden hands and turn it, and the door floats open. Closing it behind him, he creeps through the long, narrow paths. On each side, large wooden bookshelves tower above him, filled to the brim with old, dusty books.

At last, he finds what he is looking for. His fingers brush down the spine of a black, leather book. A layer of dust coats it. Tom takes it out, and admires it. The old fonts and writing intrigue him, and he can see the runes on the cover. There, emblemized in gold writing, is the title: Old Pureblood Families in Wizarding Britain.

He opens it, and flicks through the pages, skimming them keenly. At last, he finds what he is looking for. On page three hundred and ninety-four, the name Gaunt is written in a neat scrawl.

Intricate family trees and diagrams are shown on the rough pages, and Tom smiles, slipping the book into his pocket. He'll analyse it later, and with a little luck, he'll find something useful, about his family. About his father, and his mother.

They'd be proud of him now. Trying to restore this world to it's former glory. They would, he knows.

He exits the Library the same way he came, and the statue guarding the Slytherin common room lets him through with a disgruntled snort. His dormmates are asleep, but he can hear Abraxas' loud snoring. He rolls his eyes. What an idiot.

Lying down on his bed, he takes out the book cautiously, handling it as if it were a precious artefact. To him, it is. Flicking to the page with the Gaunts, he reads through it quickly. Right at the bottom of the family tree, three names catch his eye. Marvolo Gaunt, and his children, Merope and Morfin. Last known residence: Little Hangleton. Tom smiles. Maybe he'll pay them a visit soon. If they have information on his parents...

In the depths of his stone heart, he holds the foolish hope his father is still alive. A part of him hates himself for feeling like that, for being vulnerable. His mother is gone, he knows that. She died when he was born, fifteen years ago. That day, a part of him died to.

If only she'd survived. It still baffles him, how she died. She must have been a witch, he is sure of it. Purebloods are better, he knows, yet his mother was weak. Despite her superior blood, she died.

And his father did nothing to protect her. He doesn't know his father, yet he still resents him, for letting him grow up amongst muggles, with a common muggle name, for letting his mother die.

If his father was such a powerful wizard, why had he let mother die?

A cruel thought flashes through him, that maybe, his father was a muggle. No. Impossible. Tom must be a pureblood, because he is superior. Tom knows.

Yet he has been wrong before...

No. He can't be.


	10. - ' A Muggle and a Squib ' -

**Chapter 10**

Tom's brow furrow as he reads the page, again and again. There was no way in the good name of Salazar Slytherin that he is a half blood. But here, what the goblins had sent him, destroys any doubt he had. He was a half blood. Born to a squib and a filthy muggle. The shame.

He grips the edge of his bed tightly. Here, in his dorms, he had sent of the inheritance test three days prior. Just after he had returned from the library. Yet he had never expected… this.

His fingers once again trace the family tree. Above his name, an elegant scrawl connects the names Tom Riddle Sr. and Merope Gaunt. His parents.

A muggle and a squib.

It made him go queasy. All these years, he had believed he was superior, because of his blood. But no. He is a halfblood. But he was the most powerful. That means one thing: that he had been wrong.

Blood didn't matter, he realizes. There was one thing: Power. A sinister smile creeps onto his face. But he could use it to achieve power. His followers, after all, didn't know anything about this… and he would make sure they never would. The smirk widens. Again, he looks at the family tree. Gaunt. The family he had researched just days ago. At least, he had been right about their connection to him.

There is always light in the darkness, he thinks grimly. At least, he isn't an utter failure. A grin spreads. He reaches towards the book he had taken from the library. Old Pureblood Families In Wizarding Britain. Leisurely, he flicks through the parchment, until he finds the familiar name. He takes his time. After all, he only needs confirmation for his suspicions.

That, Tom Riddle, is the heir of Slytherin.

Descendant of Salazar, greatest of the four founders. Descendant of ancient line, that carries glory and power. Descendant of the gifts of the snake. He is Tom Riddle. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Born to a squib and a muggle.

But the most powerful all the same.

He reads through the pages. Scans them for one sentence that will cement his claim. And there, in the signature lavish handwriting, is his future. His past, present and future. There, sketched into the page. " _The Gaunts are known to be descendants of Salazar Slytherin. However, they have fallen into disregard after they lost their fortune. It is unclear if the line is still active."_

Tom smiles. It is, in him.

He looks at the inheritance test again. Next to his mother, is the name Morfin Gaunt. And above, Marvolo Gaunt. His uncle and grandfather. He supposes he'll pay them a visit soon.

And with the heir of Slytherin matter, well, his followers will certainly hear about that…

Later that day, he strides through the corridors, patrolling them. His eagle like glare seeks out the students that might be hiding behind pillars and walls. He's already caught two of them tonight, pulling them out of a closet and asking if they were not familiar with the rules: No students out of bed.

He smiles lazily. The irony. If his head of house knew how often he was out of bed when he was not supposed too, he would have lost his job long time ago. But Slughorn doesn't know. And Tom intends to keep it that way. He makes his way to the library, the cold stone walls staring down at him accusingly. _I own you!_ He want to shout at them. _My ancestor built you, you belong to me. Hogwarts belongs to me._

But they are walls, and have ears or eyes or mouths to listen and to bow. He sighs with a flair of the drama, and continues. Often, he finds students in library at night. Occasionally, they're revising for a test they've forgotten about. Foolish Gryffindors. He, after all, has managed.

As he walks through the wooden doors, he can swear he sees a movement of the shadows in the far end of the chamber. His brows knit together, and he runs forwards, wand drawn. Gryffindors always cause the most trouble. In fact, he's rather sick of it. There's so much more he could be doing tonight, so much more useful things that could advance his power, yet he's stuck here cleaning up after mudbloods and fools.

Muggleborns, he corrects himself mentally. Blood doesn't matter after all. He groans aloud, running his hand through his mop of curls. A little part of him wishes he'd never made that discovery. It annoys him every time he makes that mistake. Old habits die hard.

What confuses him even more is he has to keep up the ruse amongst his followers. Constantly switching between mudblood and muggleborn makes his head spin. He shakes his head, as if trying to rid it of the thousands of thoughts whirling through his mind. Tom knows he's losing focus. Get back to the task! He chides himself mentally, before taking a glance into the darkness.

There's nothing there. Confusion shines plain on Tom's face. He knows he saw something shrouded in the darkness. He knows it is better to stay out of this, to continue his duties. In the end, it's probably a figment of his imagination. But his curiosity gets the better of him.

The silhouette went right, he is sure of that. He follows its trail, and turns right, walking between two towering bookcases. He's hunching forwards now, hiding in the absence of light. He stares forwards, hoping to find another indication of where on earth this mysterious figure disappeared.

There! Another movement in the shadows, in the depths of the library. He follows it, eyebrows knotted together. Then, he breaks into a sprint, rushing through the narrow pathways, to where the shadow last appeared. He looks to the left and another motion catches his eye.

Smiling, he bolts after it. The hunt has begun.

It does not take him long to realize the figure is wearing a disillusionment charm. A weaker one, as strong ones take exceptional power to hold up. Even he, Tom Riddle, heir to Slytherin, can't hold it up for long.

It makes him feel a little better that the secretive silhouette can't either.

He chases the figure, not bothering about stealth. From the way the shadow is moving, its intention is easy to read: to escape. And that can only mean the shadow knows he's following him. Knows that Tom is on his trail, knows that Tom is chasing him through the deserted library at night.

Suddenly, Tom skids to an abrupt halt at a crossing. Rows and rows of bookcases line the thin corridor, yet the figure is nowhere in sight. Sneering scornfully, Tom almost tosses his wand to the ground. He's lost the figure.

But he hasn't given up.

He tries to think logically. There has to be an answer. What was the shadow's intention? Where did he or she want to go? Think Tom, think, he tells himself in his head, over and over again, like some parole. The shadow was in the library at night. That means they didn't want to be seen or discovered. But what in the library would you want to do in secret? What is forbidden, what is prohibited for normal students?

Tom slaps a clammy palm against his sweat covered forehead. Growling, he hisses at his stupidity. The restricted section. How has he not thought about that? The whole time, the figure was misleading him, drawing him away from their goal: the forbidden place where Hogwarts' greatest treasures lay. Smart person. Not many managed to outwit him.

This only spurned him on further. Racing through the bookcases, he cut corners, almost ripping down books on his way. He takes a shortcut, one he sometimes used to catch unruly students, and at last, reached the old ornate door that separated the restricted section from the rest of the library.

It was open. Much to his disappointment. Gritting his teeth in fury, he felt foolish for letting the figure outwit him again. However, this did give clues to the figure's identity, Tom realises. The shadow was in the library often.

The shadow is smart, he thinks, as he bolts through the hallways. At last, he finds the familiar, hazy figure standing against a bookcase, labeled _Powerful Spells._

Not wanting to alert the shadow of his presence, he continues stays where he is, peeking around the corner seeking shelter behind a pillar. An occasional glance tells him the figure is still looking for a book, the misty fingers trailing the books absentmindedly.

The shadow seems to have found something. With a swift movement, they pull out a large, leather bound volume. Silently, Tom approves with the figure's choice. The oldest books and manuscripts often have the greatest spells. Magic power seems to have depleted nowadays. Except in him.

Then, much to his surprise, the silhouette draws an wand, plain and simple but with runes engraved over the handle. Tom frowns suspiciously. He can swear he's seen that wand before. Somewhere…

Ominously, the figure recites a chant, waving their wand in a small motion. Tom knows that motion. And that chant. Both are used to lift disillusionment charms…

With excitement bubbling inside of him, Tom grins maliciously. At last, he'll know the identity of the person who outsmarted him. Finally.

The glamour melts away, revealing the disheveled looking hair of Hermione Granger.

Tom's jaw drops in surprise. Frozen in shock, he is rooted to the ground. Hermione Granger. Of course. The girl who beat him in a duel. The girl who was constantly competing with him for top marks. The girl who had magical power, that rivaled his, heir to Slytherin.

The girl who'd managed to outsmart him and beat him time and time again. Who had humiliated him in front of the entirety of Hogwarts. Of course, it had to have been her.

Who else?

Who else would go looking for the oldest books containing the most powerful spells. At least he now knows where on earth Hermione Granger learns her extensive knowledge of spells. From the restricted section, apparently. But wait… that means she's done it before. And he hasn't noticed. Once again, Tom wants to smack his head at his foolishness. The frustration is radiating of him in waves. How had he not noticed her before? He feels stupid, inferior, and he hates that to no end.

Getting vengeance on Granger will be cumbersome.

He watches her reapply her charm, and disappear into the maze of bookshelves. He doesn't have the energy for it, nor the time.

There is that lingering thought at the back of his mind. Granger has proven to be extremely powerful, so smart, that getting rid of her would be a waste. After all, she is a living example of how blood doesn't matter when it comes to power. If he got Hermione Granger onto his side, he would be unstoppable.

His followers would accept it if he spun a few lies about her being a lost pureblood. There are several lines that have been lost long ago, and it wouldn't be a far-fetched tale that Granger descended from these forgotten blood lines. Yes, that would work quite nicely.

But then there is always the matter of getting Granger onto his side. He doubts she'll be happy oppressing other mudbloods when she knows what it feels like. Tom groans as another problem races towards him. With a simple wave of his hand, he discards it. He'll think about it later.

Creeping out of the library, Tom wears a victorious smirk. Carefully, he closes the wooden door to the restricted section, and reapplies the lock that kept it closed off. Then, he walks to the Slytherin common room in the dark, his footsteps echoing across the lonely corridor. He enters, and goes to his dorm. Sticking his head through the door, he hears the even breathing of four other boys. They're all asleep. The coast is clear.

He sneaks through the door, and lets himself fall onto his bed. Rubbing his eyes tiredly, he takes one last look at the inheritance test that makes him something special.

That makes him heir of Slytherin.

Because deep down, Tom knows he's always wanted to be something special. Something different, something better, something superior to everyone else. And know he has it.

He throws a glance at the window. Moonlight bathes the room, illuminating it soft swirls of white. Smiling, Tom lets himself relax deeper into the soft mattress. One day, he knows, all of this will be his.


	11. - ‘ No more ‘ -

Hermione grimaces, annoyance clear in her pasty features. Potions. Whilst Slughorn might be a valuable ally and a good way of making connections, he's quite an incompetent potions teacher. At least to her. Some other pupils still struggle with potions Hermione could do in second year.

The professor leads them inside the classroom, and Hermione takes her usual spot. It's right at the back of the classroom, hidden by the shadows that dance along the cold stone walls. Hermione grins. It's also right next to the potions cupboard, where all ingredients are kept. Occasionally, when she needs it, her hand only has to reach out...

Neatly, she arranges her own ingredients and her cauldron, ready for the lesson. She watches Professor Slughorn clap his hands excitedly. "Students!" he calls, his unusually cheerful voice booming around the classroom. "Today, we will be brewing the Draught of Living Death. Now, can anyone tell me about it?" Keenly, his gaze musters the students.

Hermione's hand shoots up almost immediately, and a millisecond later, Tom's does too. Slughorn rolls his eyes at their eagerness, and searches the classroom for any other hands. "Anyone except Mr Riddle and Miss Granger?" He asks, his voice rising in pitch at the end, sounding hopeful.

No one moves. Slughorn sighs, and nods at Hermione. "Go on then, Miss Granger."

Hermione stands up, and recites her knowledge in an expressionless, almost robotic way. "The Draught of Living Death brings upon its drinker a very powerful sleep that can last indefinitely. It is an almost deathlike slumber, hence the name. It is made by adding the powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood. An antidote and a way to break the slumber it induces is the Wiggenweld potion."

A bright smile lights up Professor Slughorn's face. It is such a strange contrast, the dark dreary dungeons and the cheery chortles and laughs that so frequently escape Slughorn's lips.

"Correct as always. Mr Riddle, do you have anything to add?" Slughorn gestures to Riddle, who shakes his head, his sea green eyes inspecting Hermione. Strange, she thinks. Normally, Riddle uses every opportunity to harass or humiliate or simply best her. Tom, although it is hard to admit, is better at potions than her. Only by a miniscule amount, but surely he knew something else?

Professor Slughorn looks at the class, waving his hand to the black chalkboard hanging from the wall. The instructions are written on it in Slughorn's flamboyant scrawl. "Now, I want you to work in pairs for this."

A few students smile, already throwing pleading glances at friends they want to work with. Slughorn must have seen, as he shakes his head. "I chose the pairs." He says, and a simultaneous groan escapes the class.

He pairs up the pupils one by one, and when he reaches Hermione's name, he grins widely. "Miss Granger, you can work with Mr Riddle. You two are my smartest students, and I want the work you produce together to be exceptional."

Hermione's brown eyes widen comically as his proclamation. Silently, she curses to herself. Tom Riddle. As if potions wasn't already bad enough. What did teachers always pair up the two of them? If there was one thing that was clear, it was that she had absolutely rotten luck. Forcing a smile that flashes her pearly white teeth, she moves her stuff to Riddle's desk with a short flick of her wand. It floats through the air elegantly, before settling onto the wood gently.

Following her things, Hermione takes a seat next to Tom Riddle. Instead of the expected snide remark, he murmurs a quick greeting, tilting his head at slight angle. "Granger."

Hermione nods at him curtly, quite civilly for their usual standards. "Riddle." She replies in the same icy tone, and abyss of frost, shifting her chair slightly further away from him. Tom raises an eyebrow. "Look Granger, I know you don't like me, but I don't bite." He drawls, and Hermione glares at him.

Riddle looks vaguely amused, but refrains from the mocking chortle he mostly adopts in Hermione's company.

"I know. Right, you're correct, I don't like you. But you heard what Slughorn said, our work is shared. If you sabotage my grade, you're sabotaging yours too." She points out confidently, wearing a sneer, arms crossing in front of her chest.

"Do you think I haven't thought about that? You might think me stupid, Granger, but I'm not that foolish." He retorts, green eyes staring at Hermione, his tone cold. Standing up, he glances at the board. "I'm going to get the ingredients. You start the fire." He commands airily, and saunters off to the other side of the classroom, to the supply cupboard, near her old seat. Oh, how Hermione wishes she would be sitting there instead, away from Tom Riddle and his stupidity.

Lighting the fire with a quick incendio, she then fills the cauldron with water. By then, Tom is already back, carrying a few ingredients carefully.

Tom smiles approvingly, his focus drawn to the cauldron. "So, first instruction, boil the water. Well, we're doing that, so we have to wait a little until the water reaches the right temperature."

Unlike other times when they had to work together, he's actually talking to Hermione, not pretending she doesn't exist. It baffles Hermione, and angers her that she can't figure out why. Patience is a virtue, she chides herself mentally. You'll get to the bottom of it soon.

The rest of the lesson proceeds in relative silence, except for a few offhand comments Riddle makes about the potion. However, when she gets to cutting the Sopophorous beans, Riddle intervenes hurriedly. "Granger!" He taps onto the table with his nails, trying to get her attention. "Crush the bean. You'll get more juice out of it."

Hermione resists the urge to roll her eyes at him. "What do you think I was doing, you imbecile?" She snaps back angrily, voice brimming with vexation.

Riddle throws his hands into the air defensively, inspecting her carefully. "Hey! Just making sure. You don't need to call me an imbecile." His calming, serene voice is the final straw for Hermione. He would have made some stupid jibe by now. But he hasn't. He's been acting so strange...

As always, Tom Riddle remains an enigma.

"Riddle." She hisses at him, her brown orbs sparkling in muted fury, voice raspy. "I don't know what you're up too, being all nice. But I intend to find out. And by the way, I can call you an imbecile. You've been calling me enough names the past years. Hmmm, let me think." She pauses, putting a light finger under her chin, pretending to think. "Like mudblood." She tells him mockingly, a sneer taking over her face.

To her surprise, Tom Riddle flinches back. Her eyebrows furrow as she observes him. No, she convinces herself, he's just a talented actor. He looks at her with those deep green eyes, jaded, almost emotional. Hermione resists the urge to chortle. Tom Riddle. The logical, emotionless husk with no concern or empathy for others? Who was this person and what had they done with Tom Riddle?

Turning away from him, she gets on with her work. Suddenly, she has little desire to further this confrontation, in fact, it's making her rather uncomfortable. Apparently, Tom feels the same way, and he too returns to cutting the valerian root with violent yet precise chops.

This time, they stay silent. No comments. Even at the end of the lesson, when Professor Slughorn congratulates them on their excellent potion and pats them on the back, already inviting them to the next Slug club meeting, they both simply nod, not looking at each other, avoiding each other's gazes purposefully.

When the lesson ends, Hermione flees from the classroom rapidly, keeping her head bowed to the ground. It'll be lunch soon, so she makes her way towards the great hall.

As she charges through the imposing oak entrance, she quickly rushes to the slytherin table. By now, the whispers of mudblood have ceased to exist, now, they just ignore her, haven gotten used to mudblood shadow that stalks the corridors of Hogwarts.

She sits down, filling her silver plate with a small portion of food, hiding her brown eyes behind her bushy mane of hair. Suddenly, a gentle, yet direct tap to her right shoulder startles her out of her trance. Hermione turns around, ready to scowl or snort at someone, yet instead, comes face to face with Georgia, who looks positively frightened at Hermione's wild grimace.

"Sorry." Hermione mumbles under her breath.

Georgia brushes some of her auburn locks away, blushing furiously. "No, it's fine. I just wanted to ask you if you want to go the library to revise with me. I have a charms test tomorrow." She glances at Hermione almost pleadingly. "Would you please come?"

Nodding curtly, Hermione responds bluntly. "I'll consider it."

The tension hangs in the air like fog, so thick Hermione could slice through it with a knife. Georgia looks down at the ground, having regained a sudden interest in her footwear, and smiles apologetically. "Having a bad day?" she asks, her voice cautiously prodding Hermione.

A loud groan escapes Hermione's mouth. "You could say so."

Georgia grins almost knowingly. "Let me guess, Malfoy?"

"No. Riddle." Oh, how Hermione wishes it were Malfoy. At least she can read him, pierce his soul with her inquisitive stares, know exactly what he wants and thwart his plans. But Tom Riddle is forever a mystery. Unsolvable. And Hermione hates that with a burning passion. Because everything has to have an explanation, but Tom Riddle doesn't.

"Oh. Well, do you want to get going? We only have half an hour left to revise." Georgia reminds her softly, staring at her sleek leather watch worriedly.

Later, Hermione revises with Georgia quietly, giving her small tips and pointers that leave Georgia, normally regarded as the smartest girl in her year, quite flustered and murmuring about how she didn't think about it.

The subject of Tom Riddle is not breached. Hermione's grateful for it. Thank goodness Georgia possesses some tact.

The day passes with an odd sense of normalcy. That night however, Hermione sits in the deserted common room, slung across a deep green armchair covered in fur, comforted by the crackling fire. Her quill sketches lightly across the white, fresh parchment, as she writes word after word. She's almost done with her Astronomy essay, when a soothing voice interrupts her.

Hermione glares upward. A second ago, she could have sworn the common room was empty, most people already sleeping soundly in their four poster beds, but it appears Tom Riddle is still awake. He looms over her, head tilted, observing her. "Granger."

"Riddle." She snaps at him, the spark of annoyance starting to burn brightly inside of her.

Tom only watches her keenly, eyebrows furrowed as if she were a mystery he couldn't figure out. In a way, it satisfies Hermione, that she isn't the only one struggling to read another person. It appears Tom is struggling just as much as her.

He peers over the top of her paper, and instead of snorting derisively, he skims over it quickly and comments, "Your Transfiguration essay? I've already finished that. Do you need help?"

Hermione explodes, jumping up furiously, her papers and notes scattering everywhere. "I don't need your help!" she shouts at him, eyes narrowing furiously, anger combusting inside of her.

Riddle takes a step back, biting his lip as if he knows he's made a mistake. "Look." He hisses sourly at her, face twisted into a grimace. "I'm trying to be nice here, and you're making it difficult. I was offering you help."

"I don't understand you." Hermione slams her foot into the ground, hand going for her wand instinctively. "You're trying to be nice, but why? You've bullied me for what, five years?" she pauses, before staring at him, chocolate brown meeting jaded green. "I don't understand. Why? I'm just a mudblood, after all. Why are you bothering? Why have you had this sudden change of heart?"

Tom walks towards her, reaching for her hand, attempting to sooth her. "I-"

"Don't touch me." Hermione warns him, fists curling. "And I'm going to tell you one thing, Tom Riddle, and you do best to remember it. I've hated you for as long as I've known you. You ruined any chance of friendship the day you walked into my compartment."

She takes a deep breath.

"I hate you. More than anything in the world. You've bullied me, you've humiliated me, you've abused me. And I'm going to say one thing." Closing her eyes, she swallows the lump in her throat.

"No more. Play your petty games with others, manipulate them, break them. But you can't break me." She opens her lids slightly, spying on Tom through her lashes.

"No more." She vows to herself, to him, and to the world.

"No more."

A/N Hope you enjoyed this chapter! It was definitely fun to write. Also, I thought it would be worth mentioning that we have reached 25,000 words (Yay!). If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider giving a vote.

Also, just a question: would you like to see us do a cast? And what do you think will happen next?

Also, let us know if you like our version of Tom. Hit or miss? Is he to OOC?

As always, thank you for reading and constructive criticism is welcome!


	12. - ' It will be the last '-

Tom watches serenely as Hermione flees up the stairs in a hurry, homework forgotten on the large, soft armchair. He watches her shadow disappear into the darkness, shrouded in a charcoal black. He is alone, his shallow breathing one of the few sounds to be heard.

Beside him, the large fireplace still crackles, a soft muttering against the harsh silence that rules the dungeons. Under his breath, Tom curses to himself mutely, wondering where on earth he miscalculated. The answer was simple: everywhere.

He had been polite to her, no, kind even, yet she had rejected his advances with every fiber of her being. And now, it seemed so blatantly obvious where he had gone wrong. He'd expected Hermione Granger to bow, to bend, to break.

But that was not Hermione Granger. And time and time again, he had underestimated her, but this time, he swore to himself, Tom Riddle never fails.

Suddenly, he remembered that very first train journey, himself a steel-faced, childish orphan. Dressed in the most pristine second-hand robes he had been able to find, hair attempted to be parted and smooth, a small nonchalant smile resting on his lips whilst he talked of the great deeds he would commit.

He should have known Hermione Granger wouldn't give in so easily.

In fact, Tom should have realised that particular aspect long ago, beginning from the first time he saw her, hair a wild nest, back straight like a pencil along with an air of confidence that had seemed to radiate around her.

He had underestimated his opponent and hadn't grasped at the single most important fact: that Hermione Granger would never bow down to him. At least, not willingly, or without a little persuasion. That would have to change. Oh definitely. A small smirk graced his lips as he leans back into the armchair.

And then, at that moment, he vows one thing to himself, promises himself something that will drive on his machinations, encourage his plans, that rest in his mind for every other day of his life. This is the first time he has failed

It will be the last.

He is sure of it. And Hermione Granger would assist him in it. She was smart, cunning, and if not dealt with, perhaps a large rival in the future. He had to eliminate the threat before it existed, and here, he was given a golden opportunity to do so.

With a quick, practiced grace he pushed himself from the soft surface of the armchair, his cloak falling elegantly into place behind him. He takes a quick glance around, scanning the area for anyone else. Not a soul moved in the room. Tom smiles slightly, baring his teeth in a feral manner.

He pulls out his wand, softly caressing it, and throws it an admiring glance; even after all these years, he still finds himself enchanted by the prospect of magic, of what it can do, what it did to him. It transformed him into a leader, one fit to rule both worlds, and unite them. He is destined for it, he knows it, even if he finds divination rather ridiculous, it seems obvious to him.

Two worlds were never meant to be pulled apart. He will unite it once again, mend what was broken.

With his dark wand, he makes a fluid motion in the air, casting a disillusionment charm. Once again, he finds himself glancing around, caution in his gaze. The fire crackles on behind him, the cold dampness of the dungeon battling with the heat.

One last fleeting look, and then he walks away, his footsteps against the stone tiles echoing through the dungeons ever so quietly, barely audible to the human ear. He moves past the entrance to the common rooms, entering the corridor.

His pace quickens as he arrives at the moving staircases, ascending on them towards the third floor, snapping his fingers impatiently. In the hallways, dimly lit with ancient candles, shadows seem to dance across his porcelain complexion, deforming it, pulling it into an unrecognizable, twisted grimace of a monster.

Soon, he finds himself arriving at his destination, a smooth, stone statue depicting an old woman, her back a hump, her robes forever billowing around her in an eerie manner, etched into stone.

From his general knowledge about Hogwarts, acquired after long hours in the library, he knows the name, Gunhilda of Gorsemoor, a famous healer who invented a cure for the lethal disease dragon pox. He finds it almost inhumane, such an innovative spirit, who sparked a complete revolution within medicinal magic, is remembered and personified in stone as a grotesque hag. Should his plans succeed, which he is certain of, Tom hopes that history will remember him differently, that history will remember him as who he was: a great reformer who united these worlds.

He pulls out his wand and mutters an incantation under his breath.

''Dissendium!''

Tom watches patiently, a smirk appearing upon his features, as a narrow hole is formed, suitable to the size of only a single human figure. Once the hole is large enough to fit his body, he strides forward sticking to the centre of the passage, navigating calmly. Only a brief moment passes, when he finally arrives at the end of the passage.

Tom exits the tunnel hastily, one foot then the other. Now, he has time.

He reckons he'll be able to get to London within an hour at most. Magic has its uses. Then, he'll have a look around, get some information, gather some data. He'll be back before the dawn, he is sure of it.

Not that it matters greatly, aside from maintaining his pristine image at Hogwarts, as in his mind, recruiting followers for his cause is of much greater value than school work which he can complete with little difficulty anyways.

After all, with such a difficult subject as Hermione Granger to convince, he's going to need a little data before proceeding.

Because even one failure is one failure too much. And Tom needs to correct that statistic as soon as he can.

Tom grins as he strides down the deserted street, gait confident. Brick houses, mostly old and cracked, line the road, paved with rough dirty cobble. Lamps flicker in the silent night as he walks, and occasionally, he comes across a broken one, sparking feebly. Stickers and graffiti of various types cover the once polished metal of the post. In the faint light they provide, he can see moths flying.

Some cars are parked beside the houses, most of them black or grey, which, Tom supposes, reflects the dreary nature of the neighborhood. In the dark night, most lights are turned off, and all that can be heard is the constant thrumming of the wind, and at moments, the futile humming of the city, far off in the distance.

The breeze blows into his face, and he squints his eyes, attempting to make out shapes or lines in the dim light the few lampposts and stars provide. For a second, he finds himself doubting if he has the right address, here in this slightly poorer suburban neighborhood.

But this was definitely it. According to the telephone books, and the several muggles he asked, this is where Hermione Granger grew up.

Yet it strikes him as rather odd. Granger was a well-spoken girl, with what seemed to be a growing curiosity and mind, something he would have expected from a more privileged upbringing. But then, his own genius was groomed and molded from experiences at an orphanage he wouldn't dare call home, so it is not impossible.

As he walks past the houses, attempting to make out numbers upon the doors, he finds himself tempted to cast a Lumos to assist his struggles. But, alas, he is in a muggle neighborhood, and he does not have the time nor the patience to explain to the ministry in chains why he was exposing the magical community by using very visible magic openly on the streets.

At last, he reaches the right house. Constructed in grey brick that attributed to the monotone feel of the place, the house is the slightly older version of a typical suburban home. Tom wouldn't call it rundown, due to the neatly tended to garden and the clean-cut hedges with adorn the front of the house. The curtains are drawn shut, yet he detects light escaping through cracks in the thin, white material.

Number 13, it reads on a black, wooden door, marking the entrance.

Tom wisely decides not to enter. It poses too great a risk to him, as he doubts many people would use magic here, and therefore, make him entirely detectable to the Ministry. After all, he wants to make his debut there as grand and imposing as possible, in order to achieve future goals, not in a cell being interrogated for illegal and underage magic use and breaking into muggles homes.

Instead, he takes a quick, cautious glance around, eyes narrowed, scanning his location for possible threats. He can tell that nobody is in the immediate vicinity of the garden or the road, most muggles probably already home or in bed. Then, he moves forward, his polished shows tapping against the paving. His hand reaches forward gracefully, slowly opening the smooth, black metal gate at the front of the house. Pushing it open, he enters the garden.

His feet tap against a sea of pebbles littering the floor, indicating a path towards the front door. The sound of animals scurrying in the dark bushes and hedges unnerves him slightly, yet his expression does not betray an ounce of emotion, no, it is a mask of ice.

Green eyes flicker around, taking in the surroundings. His nose wrinkles slightly as he processes it. Everything strikes him as so very muggle. The neatly lowed lawn, the slightly rusty shed tucked away in the far corner of the landscape, the large, towering trees, and the grey, neatly stacked bricks, and symmetrical windows: it screams muggle and it screams ordinary.

Tom, only then, remembers how much he truly hates the muggle world, and it's the exaggerated obsession with order. Everything must be in line with muggle beliefs, and everything must be perfectly normal and ordinary. And everything extraordinary is pushed away, looked down upon, wiped out before it can truly begin.

True genius is so unbelievably rare and valuable, and muggles detest it. It baffles him, how narrow-minded the large majority of muggles are, and pains him, remembering his own experiences at the hands of those who did not possess magic.

He suffered at the hands of muggles, and he intends to prevent that for wizards like him, uniting the worlds under a common banner, and teaching the muggles what it means to be different, magical. He detests them, and mudbloods, for their ideologies and obsession, for their views and ideas and opinions. But Tom knows that he must give muggles a chance, grant them mercy and the opportunity to bow to wizards and recognize their supremacy and infinite genius.

Tom smirks as he thinks, his mind once again lured by the sweet songs he rhymes.

One day, he tells himself. This, him being here at this house to recruit Hermione Granger, him playing to teachers, dancing to their fiddle, him being compliant and perfect and a role model, all serve an ulterior goal.

He turns his attention back to the matter at mind. The house. Stalking forwards, his black cloak billowing behind him, he focuses on the windows. Even with the curtains drawn together, he can spy through the almost translucent white material. As he gets closer to the windowsill, he crouches down, a measure of caution, should the muggles be there.

They are. As he looks into the house, he finds two persons sitting there, presumably, judging by the brown hair and pale skin he knows all too well, Hermione's parents. They look extremely ordinary, with normal muggle attire, such as jeans (Tom has never understood the comfort muggles find in them), cuddling into each other, the women, of petite build, snuggling into the man next to her, his arm pulling up a wooden blanket protectively around her.

At first, Tom finds himself surprised, mouth agape as he watches the couple. They are so painfully normal, he wonders how so terribly boring humans could have birthed the intellectual soul of Hermione Granger. But then, his own father was a dirty muggle, so he won't judge.

In a strange way, he finds himself entranced by the happy couple, as they fall asleep next to each other, sinking into the grey couch, limbs interlocked. He feels an unfamiliar emotion creeping up his gut, yet he dare not pinpoint it as envy, after all, why would Tom Riddle be envious of two mediocre muggles? And even if, Tom soothes himself, he is destined for such, no, he is destined for greatness, for deeds these two would never understand.

His gaze suddenly falls upon the fireplace. Built from the same, monotone brick as the shell of the house, it blends into the monotone furniture carefully placed with precision around the Granger's living room. It is lined with photo frames, and he can make out the blurred shape of a toddler with bushy brown hair and pale skin.

Hermione Granger. Okay, he's definitely at the right address.

Tom feels a crease appear on his brow as he deciphers them. To his bewilderment, none of the photos show Hermione at older than three. And none of them show even the slightest sign of magic. Should people like these not be proud to have a daughter like Hermione, a witch?

Suddenly, a noise startles Tom in his thoughts. The women, Hermione's mother, lets out a strangles sob, curling into her husband like an injured cat. Tom moves closer, curiosity within him awakened, like a flame, pressing his face against the glass. The man appears to be stroking the woman's shoulder, and Tom deduces it must be some soothing gesture, not that he has experience in this field, but that the women quietness in a steady decrescendo. The man whispers something into her ear, playing with her hair affectionately.

He presses his ear to the glass, eager, and whips he had magic now so he could hear the words clearly. He concentrates, narrowing his eyes, lips quirking downwards.

He catches single phrases, like "She's not here." or "Don't worry. She can't hurt you."

At first, confusion sweeps within Tom's brain, as it works to figure out what they are referring to. Why would the parents of Hermione Granger be scared? Why would they talk of it, refer to it with ominous pronouns, too afraid to say the actual name?

And then, it hits him. None of the pictures showing traces of magic or Hermione being older than a toddler. The fear os something looming above them, something which they seem to be well acquainted with.

The true fear of Hermione Granger's parents is Hermione Granger herself.

To Tom, it all now makes sense. The average magical child starts showing signs of accidental magic in their toddler years. All photos depict Hermione in her toddler years, presumably before magic started showing. After that, her parents must have feared her, and removed any trace of her or magic from the house, but it continues to haunt them.

The parallels to his own childhood are not lost on Tom, yet he finds himself much more interested in the effect it has on Hermione. He steps back from the window, leaning onto one of the brick walls, back scratching into the rough surface, melting seamlessly into the landscape.

Hermione, he notices, never talked about her parents or her upbringing in general. Looking back, he did think she seemed to avoid the topic of muggles normally. Did Hermione know about her parents hating her, fearing her? Probably. The signs of fear her parents exhibited by simply talking about her could not be lost on Hermione as she stood right in front of them. Had it simply been Hermione's magic that feared her parents, or had she done something with magic? Had she willfully manipulated her parents into this paralyzed state of fear?

Tom curses under his breath. He doesn't know. Even after going to the place she grew up, deducing several facts about ties to family, Hermione Granger remains an enigma puzzle.

What a complete waste of time. He might know some things about her family, but Hermione's views and beliefs, her actions on this matter are still unknown.

And he needs her core beliefs to recruit her.

He can make assumptions of course, but that method has unfortunately failed him in the past, and the risk is too great of deterring a potential ally he has already angered multiple times.

Sighing, Tom tilts his head, and pushes off the wall, starting to walk tiredly back to the gate. He doesn't have much time before he needs to return to Hogwarts, and he'd rather be back to early than too late.

As he walks, the screws in his mind are turning, desperately trying to reach a solution that makes sense of the muddled mess of his mind.

And suddenly, as he stands on the road, ready to flee from his unsuccessful mission, he notices one fatal detail he didn't think about.

Tom always assumed Hermione Granger was so different from him. But they were so similar, too similar in personality to ignore this core detail.

His upbringing had been horrible. Hermione's, deducing from the way her parents feared her, had been horrible. As a consequence, he hated muggles.

When trying to recruit Hermione Granger, he had assumed she sympathized with muggles.

He never considered she'd hate them.

 **A/N So we are back from the 3 months\ long hiatus! Sorry about that by the way. We just didn't have a lot of time on our hands.**

 **So, as a result, here is a 3000 word chapter, which focuses more heavily on the characterization of Tom and Hermione. The next few chapters will also aim to do so, exploring who they are and why they became that person.**

 **As always, thank you for reading and we hope you enjoyed. If you did, please vote and comment down below what you think of this fic so far. Constructive criticism is always welcome.**


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